..ONTINEP''^ 
STAGECRx\F 

KENNETH  MACGOWAN 
ROBERT  EDMOND  JONES 


BY  KENNETH  MACGOWAN 
THE  THEATRE  OF  TOMORROW^ 


Digitized  by 

tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2014 

littps://arcliive.org/details/continentalstageOOmacg_0 


The  Redoutensaal,  a  great  and  splendid  eighteenth- 
century  ballroom  in  the  Hofburg  in  Vienna,  with 
an  arrangement  of  curved  walls,  staircases  and 
platforms  newly  built  into  one  end.  Here, 
under  the  light  of  crystal  chandeliers,  surrounded 
by  the  baroque  beauty  of  Maria  Theresa's  palace, 
audience  and  players  unite  in  a  relationship  freed 
from  all  the  associations  of  modern  stage-setting, 
a  relationship  essentially  theatrical  in  the  newest 
and  the  oldest  sense  of  the  word.  The  stage  is 
here  shown  cleared  of  all  but  a  few  chairs  for 
the  wedding  scene  in  Mozart's  The  Marriage  of 
Figaro. 


CONTINENTAL 
STAGECRAFT 


KENNETH  MACGOWAN 
ROBERT  EDMOND  JONES 


NEW  YORK 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN   THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO  THE 

PLAYWRIGHTS 
OF  AMERICA 


Certain  of  the  chapters 
and  illustrations  of  Conti- 
nental Stagecraft  have  ap- 
peared in  Vanity  Fair,  The 
Century  Magazine,  A  rts 
and  Decoration,  The 
Bookman,  The  Theatre 
Magazine,  Harfer's  Ba- 
zar y  The  Theatre  Arts 
Magazine,  The  Freeman, 
and  Shadowland. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 


This  book  is  a  record  of  impressions  gained  from  ten  weeks 
of  travel  through  the  theaters  of  France,  Sweden,  Germany, 
Czecho-Slovakia,  and  Austria  during  April,  May,  and  June, 
1922.  These  impressions  are  partly  reinforced,  partly  orien-: 
tated,  through  previous  visits  to  Paris  and  London,  and  through 
a  long  sojourn  of  Mr.  Jones  in  Germany  just  before  the  war. 

For  the  purposes  of  this  book,  the  journey  excluded  Eng- 
land, because  observation  and  reliable  report  showed  little  there 
that  was  not  a  faint  echo  of  what  was  to  be  found  on  the 
Continent.  Russia  was  regretfully  excluded  for  reasons  of  time 
and  the  difficulties  of  travel  3  but  fortunately  we  were  able  to 
see  in  Stockholm  a  performance  by  the  touring  company  of  the 
Moscow  Art  Theater.  Though  the  most  interesting  evenings 
of  our  trip  were  spent  in  the  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna,  and  in 
the  Vieux-Colombier  and  the  Cirque  Medrano  in  Paris,  the 
larger  part  of  our  time  was  passed  in  Germany,  and  the  greaten 
number  of  illustrations  come  from  productions  seen  there.  In 
Berlin,  in  particular,  there  were  things  to  be  seen  which  had 
been  much  discussed  by  American  visitors — Masse-Mensch^ 
the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  and  the  work  of  Leopold  Jessner, — 

vii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

and  these,  we  felt,  demanded  lengthy  study  and  analysis. 

In  our  ten  weeks  Mr.  Jones  and  I  saw  close  to  sixty  perform- 
ances. We  had  expected  to  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible, 
to  see  in  this  time  as  much  as  we  should  have  liked  of  the  really 
significant  new  work  of  the  Continental  theater.  But,  as  it 
happened,  good  fortune  and  the  great  courtesy  shown  us  every- 
where enabled  us  to  see  almost  everything  that  we  wished. 
Through  special  performances  arranged  by  the  managements 
of  the  Royal  Swedish  Opera  and  the  Berlin  Volksbixhne,  and 
by  Jacques  Copeau,  director  of  the  Vieux-Colombier,  we  saw 
half  a  dozen  most  important  productions  which  we  might  other- 
wise have  missed.  Luck  and  the  repertory  system  found  us  at 
various  German  theaters  in  time  to  witness  the  most  character- 
istic and  significant  work  of  the  past  few  years.  Finally,  we 
were  fortunate  enough  to  come  upon  two  theaters — one  ac- 
complished, the  other  potential — of  extraordinary  interest 
and  importance,  which  had  not  as  yet  been  seen  or  discussed 
by  American  visitors,  the  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna  and  the 
Cirque  Medrano  in  Paris.  Continental  Stagecraft  cannot 
pretend  to  be  so  exhaustive  a  study  as  a  year's  visit  would  have 
made  possible,  but,  in  view  of  the  exceptional  circumstances,  I 
think  that  it  is  more  than  proportionately  representative. 

With  the  exception  of  one  sketch  of  a  supposititious  produc- 
tion in  the  Cirque  Medrano,  the  illustrations  show  exactly  what 
we  saw  and  nothing  else.    Mr.  Jones's  drawings  are  in  them- 

yiii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

selves  a  kind  of  criticism  which  the  modern  theater  stands  much 
in  need  of.  They  give  the  actual  visual  quality  of  the  best  pro- 
ductions on  the  Continental  stage  far  better  than  could  photo- 
graphs of  settings  and  actors,  which  are  usually  flashlights 
innocent  of  the  atmosphere  produced  by  the  stage  lighting,  or 
the  designs  of  the  scenic  artists,  which  are  sometimes  imper- 
fectly realized  and  sometimes  bettered  in  actual  production. 
Mr.  Jones  made  his  drawings  as  soon  as  might  be  after  the 
performance,  working  from  many  rough  notes  made  during 
the  progress  of  the  play.  They  are,  I  believe,  uncommonly 
true  to  the  impression  gained  by  the  audience.  My  only  reser- 
vation would  be  that  they  catch  the  scene  and  the  lighting  al- 
ways at  the  best  moment,  and,  through  the  quality  of  the  draw- 
ing, they  sometimes  add  a  beauty  that  is  perhaps  a  little  flatter- 
ing to  the  original. 

The  text  is  a  collaboration  in  ideas,  though  not,  with  the 
exception  of  the  captions  under  the  pictures,  in  writing.  It  is  a 
compilation  of  our  impressions,  reactions,  and  conclusions.  Be- 
cause the  words  are  my  own,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  the 
personal  pronoun  "P^  when  "we"  would  be  editorially  pompous 
or  inexact. 

The  book  began  as  an  attempt  to  supplement  the  Interna- 
tional Theater  Exhibition  held  in  Amsterdam  and  London 
during  the  first  half  of  1922.  This  large,  varied,  and  arresting 
collection  of  sketches  and  models  showed  the  art  of  the  theater 

ix 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

largely  as  it  existed  in  the  imaginations  of  the  stage  designers. 
Many  of  these  sketches  were  for  productions  never  made,  some 
had  been  greatly  altered  for  better  or  for  worse  in  the  course  of 
production.  It  was  our  feeling  that  we  might  be  able  to  add 
something  to  the  knowledge  which  this  important  exhibition 
was  spreading  abroad  if  we  could  make  some  record,  however 
incomplete,  of  the  actual  accomplishment  of  the  artists  upon 
the  stage,  and  particularly  of  the  directors  and  actors,  who, 
after  all,  have  the  major  share  in  the  art  of  the  theater. 

We  have  seen  so  much  that  is  interesting,  so  much  that  is  sig- 
nificant, and  a  few  things  so  stimulating  and  inspiriting,  that 
we  have  been  tempted  often  to  push  our  report  of  impressions 
into  an  anticipation  of  future  progress.  We  have,  I  fear,  sub- 
stituted our  own  imaginations  in  many  places  for  those  of  the 
artists  of  the  International  Exhibition. 

Kenneth  Macgowan. 

Pelham  Manor,  N.  Y., 
1  August,  1922. 


X 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Prefatory  Note   

CHAPTER 

I.    Beyond  Realism  

Some  dull  definitions.  Realism  of  the  flesh  vs.  Realism  of  the 
spirit.  In  The  Cherry  Orchard  Tchehoff  and  the  Moscow  Art 
Theater  reach  reality.  A  mystic  picture  of  life  beyond  our 
Realism. 

II.    The  Living  Stage  

The  art  that  lies  closest  to  life.  Because  its  materials  are  living 
men  and  women,  it  should  not  seek  the  illusion  of  reality.  Its 
object  is  to  achieve  the  Form  of  life. 

III.  The  Path  of  the  Play  

From  Realism  through  Expressionism.  The  attempts  of  Ibsen, 
Tchehoff,  Wedekind,  and  Strindberg  to  reflect  the  Form  of  life. 
The  expressionist  movement  in  the  German  theater;  its  vio- 
lence, morbidity  and  failure.  Its  arresting  significance.  Some 
examples  of  its  vitality.  Expressionism  and  the  unconscious 
Through  Form  to  beauty. 

IV.  Black  Curtains  

The  place  of  Germany  in  the  theater.  Its  pioneering  past  and 
its  natural  virtues  and  failings.  A  beaten  and  bruised  people 
that  still  makes  a  fine  audience.  Berlin  becomes  Broadway-ized 
and  morbid.  Economy  breeds  simplicity.  A  new  day  dawns  on 
a  black-curtained  stage. 

xi 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.    The  Twilight  of  the  Machines  54 

Relics  of  the  past  which  was  once  the  future.  The  abdication 
of  the  designers,  Stern  and  Roller.  Reinhardt  seeks  a  new 
way  out.  Linnebach,  apostle  of  the  machine,  turns  apostate. 
^^Einfach^^  and  ^^Podiuniy^  the  catch-words.  Stage  machinery- 
sinks  into  its  place.    The  designer  replaces  the  mechanician. 

VI.    Light  as  Setting  68 

From  Appia's  theories  of  the  'nineties  to  the  day  of  projected 
scenery.  Lamps  of  six  thousand  candle-power.  Color  comes 
under  control.  The  dome  no  longer  a  sky;  a  neutral  boundary 
in  Jessner's  Othelloy  a  void  in  Masse-Mensch,  a  wall  to  be 
painted  with  light  in  a  Stockholm  ballet.  Settings  projected  by 
Linnebach  and  Hasait.    Light  as  a  dramatic  motif. 

VII.    The  German  Actor  81 

The  effect  of  the  war  on  the  German  players.  The  break-up 
of  Reinhardt's  exceptional  company  under  the  pressure  of  war 
and  the  motion  picture.  The  Festsfiel  brings  them  together 
again.  Ensemble  persists  in  Vienna  and  Munich.  The  S.  S. 
Tenacity  as  played  at  the  Burgtheater  in  Vienna  and  at  the 
Vieux-Colombier.  The  players  of  the  Munich  State  theaters. 
Teutonic  vitality  and  intensity  which  often  become  violence. 

VIII.    New  Acting  for  Old  91 

Four  styles  of  acting:  Impersonation  by  wigs  and  spirit,  as 
practiced  by  the  Moscow  Art  Theater.  Impersonation  by  type- 
casting. The  exploitation  of  personality  by  great  actors. 
Presentational  acting,  and  the  expository  performances  of  the 
Vieux-Colombier. 

IX.    The  Reinhardt  Tradition  106 

In  the  search  for  the  director  who  can  fuse  the  new  acting 
and  the  new  play  we  come  first  upon  Max  Reinhardt.  His  past 
and  his  present.  His  virtues  and  his  faults.  Powerful  theatri- 
calism  in  the  best  sense  possible  in  the  old  theater.  His  in- 
fluence and  his  followers.    His  future. 

xii 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

X.    The  Artist  as  Director  118 

The  advent  of  the  artist  in  the  theater,  a  functionary  unknown 
to  Moliere  or  Shakespeare.  The  designer  as  an  originator  of 
directional  ideas.  The  inevitable  union  of  director  and  artist, 
in  the  scenery-less  theater  of  the  future. 

XL    A  New  Adventure  in  Direction  130 

The  methods  of  the  director  of  the  State  Theater  in  Berlin. 
The  steps  and  levels  upon  which  he  moves  his  players  in  three- 
dimensional  compositions.  How  he  creates  effective  pictures 
and  significant  groupings  in  Richard  Illy  Othello  and  Nafo- 
leon.  Distortion  of  natural  action  to  make  points.  The 
motionless  actor.  Arbitrary  lighting.  A.  B.  C.  conceptions 
and  limited  vision. 


XIL    Masse-Mensch — Mob-Man  144 

Jurgen  Fehling  of  the  Volksbiihne  adds  understanding  to  Jess- 
ner's  freedom  and  vigor.  A  drama  of  industrial  revolution 
produced  in  abstract  terms  and  made  immensely  moving. 
Scenery  almost  disappears  and  a  workmen's  hall  becomes  a 
flight  of  steps  surrounded  by  blackness.  Arbitrary  light  and  a 
chorus  that  speaks  as  one.  Audience,  players  and  play  pass 
through  the  black  purgatory  of  revolutionary  Germany. 

XIIL  "The  Theater  of  the  Five  Thousand"  .  .  .157 
Reinhardt's  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  the  gigantic  compromise  be- 
tween the  Greek  Theater,  the  circus  and  the  realistic  stage, 
in  which  he  made  his  last  effort  towards  a  new  type  of  pro- 
duction. The  failures  of  the  building  architecturally.  Its 
virtues  and  its  possibilities,  which  the  withdrawal  of  Reinhardt 
has  left  unrealized. 


XIV.    The  Theater  of  the  Three  Hundred  .171 
Jacques  Copeau*s  Theatre  du  Vieux-Colombier  in  Paris.  The 
naked  stone  stage  with  permanent  setting  which  Copeau  and 

xiii 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Jouvet  created  in  their  search  for  a  playhouse  that  should 
give  the  actor  full  freedom.  Three  productions:  Les  Freres 
KaramazoVy  he  Paquebot  Tenacity,  Twelfth  Night.  The 
quality  of  writer  or  expositor  in  Copeau's  performances.  The 
future  of  this  theater. 


XV.  The  Redoutensaal — A  Playhouse  of  Permanence  184 
The  Redoutensaal  of  Marie  Theresa  converted  by  the  Austrian 
government  into  a  theater  vv^ithout  proscenium,  machinery  or 
scenery.  Audience  and  actors  lit  by  crystal  chandeliers  and 
surrounded  by  Gobelins  and  a  permanent  setting  of  baroque 
architecture.  Mozart  and  Reinhardt  bring  to  it  an  old  and  a 
new  theatricalism.  The  principle  applied  to  the  stage  and  the 
plays  of  to-day. 


XVI.    The  Cirque  Medrano  198 

The  little  circus  on  Montmartre  as  a  presage  of  a  theater  in 
which  the  audience  will  surround  the  players  and  gain  a  new 
relationship  with  the  play.  The  attempts  of  Reinhardt  and 
Gemier  at  the  circus-theater.  Hamlet  or  Masse-Mensch  in  the 
Medrano. 


XVII.  The  Old  Spirit— The  New  Theater  .  .  .  .213 
Seeking  both  the  new  theater  and  the  old  spirit,  Reinhardt  in- 
vades the  church.  The  Cuckoo  Theater.  Religion  in  the 
terms  of  the  theater  a  thing  of  vital  and  creative  spirit  in  Greek 
times  and  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Can  the  artist  of  the  theater 
bring  it  out  of  our  material  age? 


XIV 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


IN  COLOR 

The  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna        .       ,..      .       .  .  Fronttsftece 

FACING  PAGE 

He  Who  Gets  Slapped — A  Pitoeif  Production  24 

Die  Meistersinger — Setting  by  Roller  56 

Faust — A  Reinhardt  Production  Designed  by  Stern     .       .       .  .108 

Samson  and  Delilah — Setting  by  Griinewald  120 

Richard  III — A  Jessner  Production  Designed  by  Pirchan  .  .140 

Masse-Mensch — A  Fehling  Production  Designed  by  Strohbach  .156 
The  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna — Scene  from  The  Marriage  of  Figaro  186 

IN  HALF-TONE 

The  Cherry  Orchard — A  Stanislavsky  Production       .       .       .       .  10 

Morder,  Hoffnung  der  Frauen — Setting  by  Sievert      ....  32 

Der  Traum,  ein  Leben — Setting  by  Strohbach   44 

Macbeth — An  Andre  Production   54 

Der  Schatzgraber — Setting  by  Pirchan  .       .       .  .60 

Das  Rheingold — Setting  by  Linnebach  and  Pasetti      ....  64 

Das  Rheingold:  Valhalla   76 

Maria  Stuart:  Westminster — A  Weichert  Production  Designed  by  Sievert  112 

Maria  Stuart:  Fotheringay   114 

Samson  and  Delilah — Setting  by  Griinewald   122 

Uncle  Vanya — A  Pitoeff  Produtction   124 

Napoleon — A  Jessner  Production  Designed  by  Klein    .       .       .  .126 

XV 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Othello:  Before  Brabantio's  House — a  Jessner  Production  Designed  by 

Pirchan   128 

Othello:  The  Handkerchief   130 

Othello:  Cyprus,  the  Castle   132 

Othello:  Roderigo  Is  Wounded   134 

Richard  III — A  Jessner  Production  Designed  by  Pirchan  .       .  136 

Richard  III:  Richard  and  His  Shadow  .138 

Richard  III:  Richmond  and  His  Army   142 

Richard  III:  Richard's  Soliloquy   144 

Richard  III:  Richmond's  Soliloquy   146 

Masse-Mensch :  Dream-picture,  a  Courtyard — A  Fehling  Production 

Designed  by  Strohbach   148 

Masse-Mensch:  The  Revolutionists'  Meeting   150 

Masse-Mensch:  The  Rallying   152 

Masse-Mensch:  The  Machine  Guns   154 

The  Grosses  Schauspielhaus:  An  Impression   164 

Judith — At  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus   168 

Les  Freres  Karamazov — A  Copeau  Production  Designed  by  Jouvet  174 
Le  Carrosse  du  Saint-Sacrament — A  Copeau  Production  Designed  by 

Jouvet   180 

The  Redoutensaal :  A  Scene  from  The  Barber  of  Seville      .       .  .190 

The  Cirque  Medrano:  An  Impression   206 

The  Cirque  Medrano:  A  Supposition   208 


xvi 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 


CHAPTER  I 
BEYOND  REALISM 


T  is  a  pity  to  begin  a  book  by  being  dull.  But  a  time  of 
change  is  upon  us  in  the  theater,  and  a  time  of  change  is  a 
time  for  definitions. 


We  have  passed  through  such  times  before,  and  we  have 
come  out  after  some  years — a  century  or  so — ^with  categories 
neatly  fixed.  We  can  look  back  along  the  history  of  English 
literature  and  place  a  judicial  finger  there  and  there  and  there 
and  say  Middle  English,  Classicism,  Romanticism.  All  this  is 
pretty  well  set.  Then  we  come  to  Realism  and  its  quagmires 
— quagmires  of  balked  creation  and  quagmires  of  discussion 
— and  we  wallow  about  gesticulating  and  shouting  and  splash- 
ing the  mud  into  our  immortal  eyes.  What  is  this  bog  we 
have  been  so  busy  in?  And  what  is  the  fitful  and  rather 
blinding  storm  of  illumination  which  plays  about  the  horizon 
and  calls  itself  Expressionism? 

Of  course  these  things  are  just  what  we  care  to  make  them. 
Various  parties  to  the  argument  choose  various  definitions — 

3 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

the  kinds  that  suit  their  themes.  I  claim  no  more  for  mine 
than  that  they  will  make  clear  what  I  am  talking  about,  and 
save  a  certain  amount  of  futile  dispute. 

There  are  plenty  of  sources  of  confusion  in  discussions  about 
art.  To  begin  with,  it  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  limit  a  dynamic 
organism  by  definition.  Creative  efforts  in  drama,  fiction  or 
painting  run  out  of  one  category  and  into  another  with  dis- 
tressing ease.  More  than  that,  there  are  apt  to  be  many  parts 
to  a  whole,  many  divisions  to  a  category  5  and  the  parts  or 
the  divisions  can  be  extraordinarily  different.  Finally,  fanatics 
and  tea-table  gossips  are  equally  unscrupulous  when  it  comes 
to  "proving"  a  point.  They  make  the  definitions  of  friends 
and  foes  mean  what  they  like.  They  take  the  part  for  the 
whole,  the  division  for  the  category.  They  pin  down  a  lively 
and  meandering  work  of  art  at  just  the  place  where  they 
want  it.  Two  disputants,  bent  on  exhibiting  the  more  in- 
decent side  of  human  intelligence,  can  make  the  twilight  of 
discussion  into  a  pit  of  black  confusion. 

Let  us  bring  the  thing  down  to  the  present  quarrel  in  the 
theater:  the  quarrel  with  Realism,  which  has  moments  of 
clarity  5  the  quarrel  with  Expressionism,  which  is  murky  as 
hell. 

What  are  we  going  to  mean  when  we  talk  about  Realism? 
So  far  as  this  book  goes,  the  word  Realism  means  a  way  of 
looking  at  life  which  came  into  vogue  about  fifty  years  ago. 

4 


BEYOND  REALISM 

It  sees  truth  as  representation.  It  demands  a  more  or  less  literal 
picture  of  people  and  happenings.  It  insists  that  human  beings 
upon  the  stage  shall  say  or  do  only  those  things  that  are  reason- 
ably plausible  in  life.  Resemblance  is  not  always  its  end,  but 
resemblance  is  a  test  that  must  be  satisfied  before  any  other 
quality  may  be  admitted.  Realism  is  not,  of  course,  a  matter 
of  trousers,  silk  hats,  and  machinery.  The  realistic  attitude 
can  invade  the  sixteenth  century,  as  it  does  in  Hauptmann's 
Florian  Geyer,  Trousers,  silk  hats,  and  machinery  can  be  the 
properties  of  a  non-realistic  play  like  O'NeilPs  The  Hairy 
Ape,  The  test  of  Realism,  as  the  term  is  here  employed,  is 
the  test  of  plausibility:  Would  men  and  women  talk  in  this 
fashion  in  real  life  under  the  conditions  of  time,  place,  and 
action  supplied  by  the  playwright?  It  is  the  business  of  the 
realistic  playwright  to  draw  as  much  as  possible  of  inner  truth 
to  the  surface  without  distorting  the  resemblance  to  actuality. 

There  should  not  be  a  great  deal  to  quarrel  about  in  such  a 
definition  of  Realism,  though  its  adherents  may  deny  hotly 
the  natural  assertion  that  the  method  of  Realism  is  barren 
either  in  whole  or  in  part.  At  any  rate,  people  generally  under- 
stand what  the  row  is  about,  and  the  disputants  can  kick  up  only 
about  so  much  dust  on  this  battle-field.  Non-realism  is  another 
matter. 

That  the  thing  is  the  opposite  of  Realism  is  obvious  in  just 
one  respect:  It  does  not  admit  the  test  of  resemblance.   It  denies 

5 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

in  the  theater,  as  furiously  as  do  the  works  of  Cezanne  or  Picasso 
in  the  picture  gallery,  the  validity  of  representation.  But  what 
will  it  substitute  for  the  technique  of  Realism  and  what  will  it 
call  the  substitute?  It  will  go  back  to  romantic  periods  for  a 
free  technique,  but  it  will  look  forward  for  its  materials  along 
paths  which  psychological  research  has  lately  opened  to  men 
and  women  outside  the  ranks  of  true  poetic  genius.  By  this  it 
may  arrive  at  the  inner  truth  of  Shelley  and  Goethe,  Shake- 
speare and  ^schylus,  while  it  sacrifices  the  outer  truth  of  Ibsen 
and  Bataille,  Pinero  and  Galsworthy.  The  question  is  both  of 
technique  and  of  materials,  for  an  inner  truth  is  to  be  found  in 
a  study  of  the  unconscious  mind  which  will  not  brook  the  ob- 
structions of  actuality  and  resemblance.  Inner  truth  is  so 
much  more  important  than  actuality  that  the  new  type  of 
drama  will  not  bother  itself  to  achieve  both,  and  if  one  must 
infringe  on  the  other — ^which  must  happen  in  almost  every 
case — then  it  chooses  quickly  and  fearlessly  the  inner  truth. 

To  give  this  anti-Realism  a  name  involves  confusions  dear 
to  the  heart  of  the  controversialist.  To  give  it  the  name  Ex- 
pressionism multiplies  these  confusions.  Yet  it  is  hard  to  see 
any  alternative  at  the  moment.  We  must  embrace  the  name — 
and  the  confusions. 

The  chief  confusion  is  due  to  the  fact  that  there  are  two 
kinds  of  Expressionism,  as  there  are  doubtless  two  kinds  of 
Realism.    There  is  the  larger  and  there  is  the  smaller.  Real- 

6 


BEYOND  REALISM 

ism  can  be  a  mere  technique — resemblance;  and  it  can  also  be 
a  resemblance  through  which  you  catch  a  vision  of  the  soul. 
Expressionism  can  be  seen  by  the  friends  of  Realism  only  as 
the  narrow,  neurotic,  violent,  and  formless  art  which  displays 
itself  in  the  dramas  of  the  new  German  writers  like  Georg 
Kaiser.  I  should  be  prepared  to  defend  this  sort  of  Expres- 
sionism against  the  Realism  of  Augustus  Thomas  or  even  of 
John  Galsworthy;  but  I  should  not  admit  that  it  was  the  end 
of  the  reaction  against  resemblance.  Expressionism  may  be 
applied — and  for  the  purposes  of  this  book  it  shall  be  applied 
— to  the  whole  tendency  against  Realism,  just  as  Roman- 
ticism is  applied  to  the  whole  tendency  against  Classicism. 
Many  who  dislike  Realism  and  neurotic  German  Expression- 
ism equally,  prefer  to  give  the  form  they  seek  some  such  well- 
worn  and  inoffensive  label  as  Poetry.  This  finickiness  doesn't 
matter — except  as  it  admits  new  confusions  and  dodges  the 
issue.  This  issue  is  plain  and  should  be  kept  plain.  Realism, 
in  any  but  a  very  extraordinary  sense,  is  a  cramp  upon  art.  In- 
stinctively artists  of  the  theater  are  beginning  to  recognize  this 
and  to  seek  some  way  out.  This  involves  new  qualities  in  the 
play.  For  practical  purposes  let  us  call  the  way  of  escape 
Expressionism.  Some  other  term  may  establish  itself  in  the 
course  of  years,  but  for  the  moment  this  is  all  we  have. 

It  is  fairly  easy  to  apply  these  terms  and  definitions  to  the 
current  theater — if  you  are  not  too  doctrinaire  or  too  partizan. 

7 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Realism  yawningly  enfolds  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  play- 
wrights. Maeterlinck  and  D'Annunzio  require  a  little  special 
attention  and  Shaw  and  Barrie  raise  nice  points.  But,  in  gen- 
eral, the  distinction  holds  j  resemblance  shepherds  the  realistic 
playSj  emanations  of  the  unconscious  guide  us  to  the  expres- 
sionistic.  Even  the  purely  representational  performances 
which  most  of  our  actors  and  directors  give  do  not  always  suc- 
ceed in  hiding  the  cleavage. 

The  most  startling  and  disturbing  experience  that  any  friend 
of  Expressionism  can  have  is  to  sit  through  a  performance  of 
Tchehoff^s  The  Cherry  Orchard  by  the  Moscow  Art  Theater 
— even  by  that  portion  of  Stanislavsky's  celebrated  company 
which  was  cut  off  by  WrangePs  army  while  playing  in  South- 
ern Russia  and  compelled  to  tour  Europe  for  two  years  before 
repatriation  was  possible.  Here  is  a  play  of  a  generation  ago 
written  by  the  man  whose  dramas  were  the  cornerstone  of  suc- 
cess for  the  world's  greatest  realistic  theater.  It  is  a  genre 
study  almost  without  plot:  decayed  aristocrats,  old  servants, 
newly-rich  peasants  and  the  incident  of  the  sale  for  debt  of  an 
ancestral  property.  There  is  no  more  violence  in  it  than  the 
violence  of  life  which  rots  an  oak.  There  is  no  more  distortion 
than  is  to  be  expected  in  light  reflected  from  the  troubled  sur- 
face of  life.  And  it  is  played  with  an  almost  utter  perfection 
of  realistic  detail,  complete  impersonation,  and  rounded  en- 
semble. 

8 


BEYOND  REALISM 

Yet  if  this  is  Realism  we  have  never  known  Realism  in  our 
theater.  It  carries  us  through  life  and  out  on  the  other  side. 
It  drenches  us  with  a  mystic  sense  of  existence.  And  when  we 
read  the  text  of  the  play  and  separate  it  from  the  extraordinary 
emotional  actuality  of  the  performance,  we  discover  again  and 
again  and  again  speech  that  drives  straight  at  free  expression 
instead  of  resemblance,  and  action  and  character  permeated 
with  an  almost  religious  symbolism.  All  this  fused  by  play- 
wright and  players  into  what  seems  a  work  of  the  most  perfect 
resemblance,  but  what  is  actually  only  the  appearance  of  ap- 
pearance. 

The  surface  of  the  play  is  the  surface  of  life.  Mme. 
Ranevsky  has  returned  to  her  estates  after  a  turmoil  of  years  in 
France.  There  are  the  usual  appendages:  a  daughter,  an 
adopted  daughter,  a  governess,  a  housemaid,  a  major-domo, 
and  a  man-servant  who  have  grown  into  the  life  of  the  house, 
a  brother,  an  old,  impoverished  friend,  a  village  clerk  with  his 
eye  on  the  maid-servant,  an  up-and-coming  merchant  whose 
grandfather  was  a  serf  on  the  estate.  These  people  talk  a  great 
deal,  and  in  talking  they  make  certain  matters  plain.  One  of 
these  is  that  no  one  can  save  the  estate,  the  beautiful  cherry 
orchard,  from  the  consequences  of  the  family  temperament. 
Madame  and  her  brother  have  always  spent  their  money  as  be- 
comes gentlefolk,  and  some  one  has  forgotten  the  secret  of  how 
the  cherries  used  to  be  dried  and  sent  to  the  markets  of  the  far 

9 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

cities  every  year.  They  flounder  about  in  self-deception,  always 
hoping  for  succor,  never  willing  to  accept  the  scheme  of  the 
friendly  merchant  for  cutting  the  estate  up  into  villa  lots,  and 
never  able  to  do  anything  themselves  to  save  it  from  the  auc- 
tioneer. Ultimately  the  merchant  buys  it  in,  and  in  blissful 
callousness  puts  the  ax  to  the  trees  as  the  family  leave  the  old 
house.  Out  of  these  people  and  their  dilemma  rises  the  most 
curious  and  moving  symbolism.  A  suggestion  of  symbols, 
rather;  for  there  is  nothing  bald  about  it.  Truths  of  Russian 
temperament,  even  Russian  politics,  are  figured  with  the  hidden 
yet  revealing  quality  that  so  often  rises  out  of  life  like  an  odor 
from  old  fields,  freighted  with  memories  and  anticipations. 
Perhaps  the  simplest  and  most  moving  example  of  this  comes 
at  the  very  end  of  the  play.  Through  it  all  has  moved  a  mum- 
bling, bent  old  man  who  has  been  the  loving  guardian  of  the 
household  for  two  generations,  one  of  those  rare  and  ancient 
servants  who,  by  sheer  servility,  have  lifted  themselves  out  of 
servantage  and  into  a  share  in  the  family  life.  In  the  end,  the 
house  is  sold,  the  furniture  removed,  the  shutters  closed.  The 
family  depart.  Then  into  the  dim  room  comes  the  old  man, 
forgotten.  He  totters  across  to  the  derelict  sofa  that  has  been 
left  behind.  He  curls  up  on  it  like  some  old  leaf.  There  in 
the  darkness  he  dies.   The  soul  of  old  Russia. 

As  the  old  man  dies  something  occurs  that  gives  us  all  the 
license  we  need  in  order  to  see  in  other  portions  of  the  play 

10 


Realistic  production  at  its  best.  The  final  moment 
of  Tchehoff's  The  Cherry  Orchard  as  produced 
by  the  touring  company  of  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre.  The  ancestral  house  has  been  sold,  cur- 
tains and  pictures  have  been  taken  down,  the  furni- 
ture is  shrouded.  The  shutters  are  closed.  The  lights 
are  so  dim  that  the  room  is  no  longer  a  room  but 
a  vague,  brooding  presence.  The  old  servant 
gropes  his  way  through  the  darkness,  crawls  upon 
the  couch  and  dies. 


BEYOND  REALISM 

methods  and  attitudes  far  indeed  from  Realism.  The  stage 
directions  read:  "A  distant  sound  is  heard,  as  if  from  the  sky, 
and  the  sound  of  a  string  breaking,  dying  away,  melancholy." 
It  is  a  sound  that  occurs  also  in  the  second  act,  unexplained, 
ominous.  Symbolism.  Arbitrary  and  very  expressive  sounds 
from  heaven.  Is  it  at  all  surprising  to  find  the  characters  of 
this  play  indulging  in  lengthy  accounts  of  their  lives  without 
taking  the  least  trouble  to  find  some  stranger  who  might  plausi- 
bly be  ignorant  of  it  all? 

Perhaps  this  is  Realism,  perhaps  not.  Certainly  it  is  both 
sharp  with  actuality  and  mystic  with  life's  intensity  as  these 
Russian  players  act  it.  The  company  did  not  contain  the  great- 
est of  the  group  which  Stanislavsky  has  gathered  about  him 
since  he  opened  his  theater  in  1 897.  The  director  himself  was 
not  there  to  play  the  maundering  brother.  On  this  night  Kach- 
aloff  was  out  of  the  cast.  But  Mme.  Knipper,  the  widow  of 
Tchehoff,  played  Mme.  Ranevsky,  and  P.  A.  Pavloff  played 
the  old  servant.  How  many  of  the  other  players  acted  parts 
long  familiar  to  them  I  cannot  say  5  but  their  work  gave  the 
impression  not  only  of  exceptionally  fine  individual  perform- 
ances but  of  an  ensemble  long  and  lovingly  built  up  into  per- 
fection. It  is  an  old  cliche  as  well  as  a  sad  comment  on  acting 
as  an  art  to  say  that  a  player  does  not  flay  a  character  but  lit- 
erally is  the  character.  In  the  case  of  this  company  from  the 
Moscow  Art  Theater,  there  is  a  deep  intensity  in  the  perform- 

11 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ance  and  a  frank  desire  for  absolute  impersonation  which  make 
such  a  comment  on  their  playing  of  The  Cherry  Orchard  the 
obvious  and  revealing  truth.  It  is  a  comment  that  applies  to 
the  ensemble  as  much  as  to  the  individual  acting. 

The  wedding  of  an  utterly  realistic  performance  with  a  play 
of  mystic  overtones  is  justified  by  the  sense  of  an  old  and  com- 
plete life  which  both  possess.  The  intimacy  of  the  actors  with 
one  another  is  as  evident  as  the  intimacy  of  the  characters  they 
play,  and  the  intimacy  of  masters  and  servants  in  this  Russian 
family.  The  welcome  of  the  mistress  on  her  return  may  be  a 
matter  of  the  clever  rehearsal  of  off-stage  noise — amazingly 
clever,  you  can  believe  5  but  when  this  adoration  comes  out  of 
the  wings  and  walks  upon  the  stage,  it  is  seen  as  the  perfection 
of  emotion  and  impersonation.  A  performance  in  so  foreign  a 
tongue  as  Russian  gains  because  our  eager  imagination  is  at  work 
to  interpret  in  the  acting  the  gaps  left  by  the  lack  of  words. 
It  also  loses,  because  the  meaning  of  the  play  is  not  always  there 
to  show  the  linking  of  character  and  character,  and  of  incident 
and  incident  \  great  spaces  of  action  are  blank  and  without  emo- 
tion^ we  carry  away  fewer  and  shorter  memories.  How  many 
and  how  continuous,  however,  are  the  memories  of  this  per- 
formance, and  how  piercingly  keen  are  the  sharpest  of  them! 
Mme  Knipper:  a  welling  flood  of  emotion  at  the  old  nursery 
of  her  childhood;  blind  affection  for  the  lovely,  ancient 
orchard  3  childlike  prodigality  in  her  gesture  as  she  scatters 

12 


BEYOND  REALISM 

money  that  might  once  have  saved  the  estate,  followed  by  child- 
like penitence;  and  then  the  moment  v^hen  she  hears  at  last 
that  the  orchard  is  sold,  when  her  ability  to  ignore  and  forget 
slips  from  her  and  she  turns  old  before  our  eyes.  Pavloff, 
prince  of  impersonators  of  old  men,  hobbling  about  the  room; 
a  bent  and  shuffling  figure  eternally  mumbling,  eternally  nurs- 
ing j  a  watery-eyed  kiss  for  madame's  hand,  a  pat  for  the  twisted 
collar  of  the  brother,  a  touch  to  the  turn  of  a  curtain;  an  old, 
old,  devoted  shape  speaking  its  fullness  of  character  in  every 
movement.  Other  figures  almost  as  fully  felt  and  seen.  Each 
one  doing  the  least  little  thing  with  an  arresting  significance. 
Here  for  once  are  actors  who  realize  the  importance  of  cross- 
ing a  stage,  as  a  display  not  of  themselves  but  of  their  char- 
acters. Here,  equally,  are  actors  who  have  got  by  all  the  small 
egoisms  of  their  kind.  It  is  said  that  Stanislavsky  found  his 
players  among  artists,  writers,  students,  shopkeepers,  anywhere 
but  in  "the  profession."  At  any  rate  in  twenty  years  he  has 
made  them  into  selfless  but  distinguished  parts  of  a  new  organ- 
ism. Their  intimacy  as  people  must  be  as  great  as  the  intimacy 
which  they  give  their' characters  on  the  stage.  They  are  an 
orchestra;  their  playing  is  a  music,  a  harmony.  They  seem  to 
have  lived  into  this  play  in  the  eighteen  years  that  they  have 
given  it  until  now  they  are  part  one  of  another.  It  does  not 
matter  that  some  may  have  had  their  roles  only  five  years,  per- 
haps only  five  months.    They  are  enveloped  in  the  mother- 

13 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

liquor  of  this  mature,  well-aged  performance.  You  recall  the 
stew  that  Anatole  France  described:  "To  be  good  it  must  have 
been  cooking  lengthily  upon  a  gentle  fire.  Clemence's  stew 
has  been  cooking  for  twenty  years.  She  puts  into  the  pot  some- 
times goose  or  bacon,  sometimes  sausage  or  beans,  but  it  is 
always  the  same  stew.  The  foundation  endures;  this  ancient 
and  precious  foundation  gives  the  stew  the  quality  that  in  the 
pictures  of  old  Venetian  masters  you  find  in  the  women's 
flesh." 

Such  Realism  as  this  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theater  compares 
most  curiously  with  the  best  we  know  of  realistic  acting  in  the 
productions  of  David  Belasco  and  Arthur  Hopkins.  It^has  the 
care  and  minutiae  of  Belasco  sharpened  by  far  greater  ability  on 
the  part  of  players  and  director,  and  mellowed  by  time.  It  has 
the  naturalness  of  Hopkins  5  but,  because  it  is  secured  by  de- 
liberate direction  and  not  by  the  indirection  of  the  American's 
method,  the  naturalness  fits  into  a  general  design  and  is  never 
slipshod.  (So  far  Stanislavsky  denies  life  and  its  accidents!) 
It  is,  of  course,  worse  than  futile  to  compare  such  acting  with 
our  own  for  any  purpose  but  understanding.  We  cannot 
achieve  a  performance  of  this  kind  so  long  as  we  have  no 
permanent  companies,  no  repertory  system.  It  is  not  alone  a 
matter  of  the  leisurely  method  of  production  which  Stanis- 
lavsky can  employ, — months  spent  in  study  of  the  script,  long 
readings  and  discussions  over  every  character.  Repertory 

14 


BEYOND  REALISM 

keeps  the  actors  playing  a  piece  for  years.  They  are  not  re- 
peating themselves  evening  after  evening  with  mechanical  de- 
votion. They  come  back  to  the  play  from  other  parts.  They 
see  it  anew.  If  it  is  such  a  piece  as  The  Cherry  Orchard^  they 
plunge  into  its  depths  with  a  sense  of  refreshment.  They  are 
the  parts  of  a  whole  which  they  can  never  greatly  alter,  but 
which  they  can  enrich  by  new  contributions. 

We  have,  then,  in  this  performance  an  almost  perfect  exam- 
ple of  minute  and  thorough  Realism,  fused  into  something 
beyond  Realism  through  its  union  with  a  play  distinctly  ex- 
pressionistic  in  certain  qualities.  It  would  be  easy  to  see  how 
frank,  non-realistic  acting  could  be  applied  to  The  Cherry 
Orchard.  It  is,  in  fact,  very  hard  to  see  how  the  players  can 
act  some  of  the  speeches  as  they  do,  notably  the  descriptions  of 
themselves  and  their  lives  which  the  governess  and  Madame 
Ranevsky  furnish  to  fellow-characters  fully  acquainted  with 
all  they  say,  characters  who  very  rightly  pay  not  the  slightest 
heed.  If  ever  a  player  had  an  opportunity  to  bridge  directly 
the  gap  which  has  existed  between  stage  and  audience  for  the 
past  fifty  years,  and  to  present  emotion  as  simply  and  honestly 
and  theatrically  as  do  the  gravestones  in  Spoon  River,  it  is  the 
actress  who  plays  the  governess.  She  begins  the  second  act 
with  the  following  speech,  virtually  a  soliloquy,  to  which  none 
of  the  others  on  the  stage  pay  the  least  attention,  even  the  atten- 
tion of  boredom: 

15 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

I  have  no  proper  passport.  I  don't  know  how  old  I  amj  I  always 
feel  I  am  still  young.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  my  father  and  mother 
used  to  go  about  from  one  country  fair  to  another,  giving  perform- 
ances, and  very  good  ones,  too.  I  used  to  do  the  salto  mortale  and  all 
sorts  of  tricks.  When  papa  and  mamma  died,  an  old  German  lady 
adopted  me  and  educated  me.  Good!  When  I  grew  up  I  became  a 
governess.  But  where  I  come  from  and  who  I  am  I  haven't  a  notion. 
Who  my  parents  were — very  likely  they  weren't  married — I  don't 
know.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  long  to  talk  so,  and  I  have 
no  one  to  talk  to,  I  have  no  friends  or  relations. 

Is  this  Realism?  Is  it  Expressionism.?^  Is  it  something  be- 
tween, some  Realism  of  the  Spirit  opposed  to  the  Realism  of 
Flesh  which  we  know.?^  Can  we  say  that  we  know  true  Realism 
of  the  Flesh  as  yet.?*  Even  if  we  do  know  it  in  a  few  fugitive 
productions,  are  we  ready  to  give  up  not  only  such  Realism 
but  also  the  possibility  of  deeply  moving  performances  like 
this  of  The  Cherry  Orchard^  and  to  go  seeking  a  fresh  and 
debatable  thing  fan  on  the  other  side  of  experience?  If  we  are, 
it  is  because,  we  see  that  such  perfection  as  this  of  The  Cherry 
Orchard  is  a  very  rare  thing  for  which  we  pay  with  hours  of 
the  commonplace,  and  because  we  recognize  that  when  a  play 
reaches  such  spiritual  quality  it  has  traveled  so  far  from  Real- 
ism that  the  journey  is  almost  over. 


16 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  LIVING  STAGE 

THERE  is  something  in  the  nature  of  the  theater  that 
makes  Realism  a  natural  and  a  thoroughly  unsatis- 
factory method  of  expression.  Its  principal  material, 
the  actor,  is  too  near  actuality.  It  is  no  triumph  of  art  to  make 
a  flesh-and-blood  man  named  Grant  Mitchell  into  a  flesh-and- 
blood  man  named  Andrew  Lane.  Especially  when  the  heart 
of  the  whole  business  is  an  elaborate  pretense  that  there  really 
isn't  any  actor,  and  there  really  isn't  any  theater,  and  we  are 
really  looking  through  the  fourth  wall  of  a  room  in  the  next 
village. 

Obviously  no  other  art  is  so  close  to  life  or  so  quick  with 
life's  vitality.  Literature  uses  printed  signs  of  a  very  arbitrary 
and  formal  nature,  which  we  translate  into  words  forming  ideas 
and  mental  pictures,  which,  in  turn,  may  suggest  human  beings 
and  their  emotions.  Music  employs  sounds  some  of  which 
faintly  suggest  bird-notes  or  the  rumble  of  the  heavens,  but 
none  of  which  comes  within  shouting  distance  of  the  human 
voice.  Painting  has  pieces  of  canvas  and  lumps  of  colored 
clays^  and  these  it  arranges  in  patterns,  through  which,  by 

17 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

custom  and  habit,  we  are  able  to  gain  an  impression  of  a 
curiously  flattened  life.  Even  sculpture,  literal  as  its  rounded, 
three-dimensional  shapes  ordinarily  are,  must  use  the  inter- 
mediary of  clay  or  rock.  The  theater  is  the  one  art  that 
works  in  the  materials  of  life  itself.  It  employs  life  to 
render  life.  Painting,  architecture,  and  sculpture  may  supply 
a  background  to  the  actor,  but  the  actor  is  the  center  of  the 
play,  and  when  he  speaks  the  words  of  literature  he  speaks 
them  as  the  actual  human  being  from  whom  they  are  sup- 
posed to  come. 

The  actor  brings  the  theater  far  too  close  to  life  to  please 
some  of  its  great  lovers.  The  actuality  of  the  actor  affrights 
them.  Gordon  Craig,  once  an  actor  and  always  a  true 
partizan  of  the  theater,  has  felt  this.  He  has  found  the  actor 
too  much  a  piece  of  life,  too  much  a  creature  of  the  emotions 
of  existence,  and  too  little  an  impersonal  and  dependable  tool 
of  the  artist.  "The  actions  of  the  actor^s  body,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  the  sounds  of  his  voice,  all  are  at  the  mercy 
of  the  winds  of  his  emotions.''  He  is  not  clay,  he  is  not  stone, 
he  is  not  curves  of  ink,  he  is  not  arbitrary  sounds  produced 
from  wood  or  brass.  He  is  life  itself,  and  a  very  irregular 
and  undependable  part  of  life.  Therefore,  says  Craig,  the 
thing  that  the  actor  gives  us  is  not  a  work  of  art  5  "it  is  a 
series  of  accidental  confessions.'' 

Now  the  contrast  between  the  pliant  and  well-behaved 

18 


THE  LIVING  STAGE 

clay  and  the  intractable  actor  is  interesting.  And  there  is 
a  certain  significance  in  the  fact  that  when  Craig  describes 
the  work  of  the  actor  as  a  series  of  "accidental  confessions/' 
he  uses  a  phrase  which  would  delight  the  harshest  of  the 
realists^ — the  writers  who  practised  Naturalism,  the  literal 
transcription  of  the  irregularities  of  life.  But  the  issue  goes 
deeper.  The  actor  is  essential  to  the  theater.  He  cannot 
be  turned  out  for  a  glorified  puppet,  an  JJ bermarionette. 
But  perhaps  he  can  be  told  that  he  is  far  too  near  life  and 
its  accidents  to  spend  his  time  imitating  them.  To  give  us 
life  and  its  significance  the  dramatist,  like  workers  in  the 
other  arts,  needs  an  intermediary.  If  the  actor  is  not  a  true 
intermediary,  because  he  is  a  part  of  life,  the  dramatist  has 
only  to  see  that  he  can  go  beyond  the  actuality  of  the  physical 
actor  to  Form.  With  the  creative  vitality  of  the  living  actor 
to  awaken  us  and  make  us  sensitive  and  responsive,  the  drama- 
tist may  strive  to  reach  beyond  outward  truth  to  that  inner 
truth  which  presents  itself  to  us  in  deliberate  and  natural 
arrangements  of  life. 

It  is  no  easy  thing  to  tell  what  is  meant  by  the  word  Form 
when  we  take  it  past  the  idea  of  the  design  of  things  in  a 
literal  sense,  and  apply  it  to  significance  in  the  design  of 
life.  But  it  is  easy  to  say  that  Form  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  representation  or  illusion.  As  Clive  Bell  points 
out  in  his  book  Arty  in  which  he  makes  a  brilliant  plea  for 

19 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

what  he  calls  "significant  form"  as  the  test  of  visual  art, 
the  fact  that  a  thing  is  representative,  does  not  at  all  sug- 
gest either  the  presence  or  the  absence  of  Form.  It  does  not 
preclude  its  having  Form  just  as  it  does  not  in  the  least 
assure  it.  The  theater  will  always  have  the  physical  body 
of  the  actor,  and  to  that  extent  it  will  always  be  representa- 
tional. But  that  is  certainly  all  it  need  have  of  illusion.  What 
the  actor  says  and  the  atmosphere  in  which  he  appears  may 
be  absolutely  non-representational.  Even  his  physical  body, 
as  he  uses  it,  may  take  on  qualities  outside  and  beyond 
illusion. 

It  remains  the  dramatist's  special  business  to  master  the 
extremely  difficult  task  of  fighting  through  to  Form  while 
retaining  the  realistic  technique,  or  else — ^which  seems  far 
better — frankly  to  desert  Realisni,  representation,  illusion, 
and  write  directly  in  significant  terms,  no  matter  how  un- 
plausible  they  may  be.  After  all,  common  sense  sees  that  it 
is  better  to  concentrate  all  of  an  artist's  technical  energies  on 
the  major  thing  he  wishes  to  accomplish.  Bell  says  of  the 
men  and  women  of  the  future:  "When  they  think  of  the 
early  twentieth-century  painters  they  will  think  only  of  the 
artists  who  tried  to  create  Form — the  artisans  who  tried  to 
create  illusions  will  be  forgotten.''  It  is  equally  true  that 
the  artist  who  tries  to  create  illusion  is  more  than  likely  to 
forget  to  create  Form. 

20 


THE  LIVING  STAGE 

Now  creating  Form  does  not  mean  hiding  the  actuality 
of  the  actor  under  strange  robes.  There  seems  to  be  a  curious 
notion  abroad  that  the  alternative  to  Realism  is  Romance.  It 
is  true  that  in  trying  to  escape  out  of  Realism  a  number  of 
playwrights  have  avoided  reality  and  wandered  into  the 
never-never-land  of  Thalanna  and  Kongros.  It  is  also  true 
that  modern  sciences,  history,  archeology,  and  psychology, 
have  made  the  past  new  and  real  and  alive  again,  and  that 
certain  playwrights  have  seen  in  the  rejuvenated  ages  a  chance 
to  escape  the  realistic  and  to  attain  more  permanent  values. 
But  it  is  not  true  that  the  present  offers  smaller  opportunities. 
Expressionist  playwrights  have  already  shown  this  conclu- 
sively enough;  witness  Eugene  O'Neill's  The  Hairy  Ape, 

Theatrical  history  has  never  been  as  popular  with  theatrical 
reformers  as  it  should  be.  It  shows  not  only  that  the  realistic 
technique  is  a  matter  of  the  last  half  century,  and  that  the 
greatest  periods  of  the  theater's  history  were  non-realistic. 
But  it  shows  also  that  even  when  Realism  was  an  impossible 
idea,  and  when  expressive,  significant  Form  was  the  only 
thing  at  which  the  playwright  aimed,  the  theater  and  its  audi- 
ences usually  lived  frankly  and  healthfully  in  the  present. 

Greek  tragedy,  to  be  sure,  was  not  a  thing  of  the  present 
— except  in  the  reality  of  its  religious  emotion.  Its  heroes 
came  out  of  the  past.  They  did  not  talk  or  act  like  the 
Athenians  that  watched  them.    They  even  dressed  according 

21 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

to  a  set  convention  of  their  own.  In  every  way  the  Greek 
tragic  theater  embraced  Form,  directly  and  naturally.  It 
was  in  the  temperament  of  the  Greeks.  Their  sculpture  was 
realistic  to  a  degree  never  before  reached  and  not  surpassed 
in  physical  truth  to-day  j  yet  from  these  statues  we  gain  a 
sense  of  Form  far  more  significant  than  the  sense  of  life 
which  they  give  us.  Representation  was  not  an  end  to  the 
Greek  artist.  The  dramatist  of  Athens  felt  no  desire  to 
"humanize'^  his  heroes  or  to  make  them  like  the  people  about 
him  in  any  particular.  The  drama  was  religious  in  origin 
and  had  not  yet  grown  temporal.  So  long  as  the  Greek  mind 
had  its  fondness  for  Form,  there  could  be  no  demand  for 
the  smallest  actuality. 

But  man's  natural  fondness  for  ^^humanness"  and  "recog- 
nition" found  plenty  of  opportunity  for  expression  after  the 
passing  of  the  great  Greeks.  And  it  was  satisfied  in  almost 
every  case  without  breaking  in  too  sharply  on  the  heart  of 
the  drama,  expression  of  Form.  The  medieval  religious 
drama  was  both  religious  and  temporal.  The  saints  were 
very  much  of  the  times  in  clothes  and  in  habits.  The  Bible 
characters  lived  the  lives  and  wore  the  garments  and  exer- 
cised the  minds  of  people  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Shakespeare 
dipped  back  into  history  and  into  romance,  too,  but  his  Italian 
nobles  dressed  like  Londoners,  his  Roman  "mechanicals" 
were  British  workmen,  and  his  Athenian  yokels  came  out  of 

22 


THE  LIVING  STAGE 

the  English  countryside.  Moliere  "modernized"  the  Roman 
rascal  Phormio  into  the  Neapolitan  rascal  Scapin,  and  the 
ordinary  Parisian  gentleman  served  him  for  Alceste.  Phedre 
and  Iphigenie  were  not  so  very  Greek.  In  England  trage- 
dians played  Shakespeare  in  the  costumes  of  their  own  day 
down  through  Garrick,  Siddons,  and  Kemble.  And  do  you 
imagine  that  all  this  had  the  slightest  effect  on  the  plays,  any 
bearing  on  their  expression  of  the  inner  Form  rather  than  the 
outward  shape  of  life?  In  spite  of  the  flesh-and-blood  actor, 
clothed  in  the  costumes  of  the  time,  the  playwright  was  saved 
from  mere  representation,  from  all  this  peep-hole  business  of 
Realism.  Doubtless  he  was  saved  because  the  temper  of  his 
time  was  not  corrupted  and  twisted  and  tortured  by  the  unholy 
union  of  science  and  capitalism.  But  it  is  rather  interesting 
to  remember  that  the  actors  appeared  in  theaters  so  utterly 
unreal,  so  essentially  theatrical,  that  nobody  could  imagine 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  standing  with  his  eye  glued  to  a 
chink  in  the  fourth  wall. 

The  theaters  of  the  past  united  the  temporal  and  the  eter- 
nal, the  passing  moment  and  the  permanent  Form  partly  in 
innocence,  and  partly  from  a  natural  ability  to  understand 
things  better  in  their  own  terms.  We,  too,  can  grasp  more 
of  the  Form  of  life  if  we  see  it  derived  from  the  life  we 
know.  But  this  does  not  mean  that  the  Elizabethans  had  the 
slightest  interest  in  the  thing  that  has  absorbed  our  stage — 

23 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

plausibility,  representation,  resemblance.  To-day  we  are 
beginning  again  to  desire  reality  of  soul  instead  of  mere  reality 
of  body.  We  want  to  know  about  our  own  time  and  our  own 
people,  but  we  don't  give  a  hang  to  learn  how  imperfectly, 
how  haltingly,  a  modern,  realistic  Hamlet  would  express  hfe 
thoughts  on  suicide. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  see  how  much  Shakespeare's  greatest 
tragedy  would  have  lost  if  he  had  written  like  a  Galsworthy. 
Poetry  of  word  is  not  the  only  thing  that  would  have  gone 
by  the  board.  Poetry  of  idea  would  have  disappeared,  too. 
More  than  that,  the  ability  of  a  character  to  express  himself 
would  have  been  hideously  confined  within  the  formula  of 
plausibility.  Perhaps  so  great  an  artist  could  have  written 
his  tragedy  without  permitting  a  single  person  to  speak  an 
inner  thought  that  time  and  circumstance  could  not  bring 
out,  but  I  am  a  little  inclined  to  doubt  it.  And  I  am  very 
much  inclined  to  assert  that  the  vitality  and  the  effectiveness 
of  such  a  work  of  unnatural  and  straining  effort  would  have 
been  nothing  beside  the  vitality  and  effectiveness  of  the  Hamlet 
we  know. 

For  twenty  years  the  European  stage  has  struggled  over 
the  problem  of  plausibility  and  resemblance  in  setting.  The 
thing  called  the  new  movement  in  the  theater  has  spent  half 
the  time  devising  mechanisms  and  technique  for  achieving 
genuine  representation  instead  of  the  bastard  thing  that  tried 

24 


George  Pitoeff's  arrangement  of  He  Who  Gets 
Slapped  in  Paris.  The  stage  is  draped  in  black 
curtains.  Narrow  scarlet  ribbons  looped  from  the 
proscenium  arch  indicate  a  circus  tent.  The  actors 
make  their  entrances  and  exists  from  behind  a 
huge  circus  poster,  which  is  changed  from  act  to 
act. 


THE  LIVING  STAGE 

to  make  a  dining  room  out  of  badly  painted  and  flimsy  canvao. 
And  it  has  spent  about  half  the  time  trying  to  get  rid  of  this 
machinery  and  this  technique  in  order  to  escape  the  Realism 
which  demanded  such  things.  In  Stockholm  you  see  the  tour- 
ing company  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theater  playing  realistic 
plays  in  just  the  sort  of  ugly,  cheap,  old  setting  that  Craig, 
Reinhardt  and  Belasco  equally  set  their  faces  against.  In 
Dresden  you  see  Shaw's  Pygmalion  played  at  the  State 
Schauspielhaus  in  settings  as  solid  and  illusive  as  stone  and 
wood.  In  Paris  you  see  the  Russian  Georges  Pitoeff  giving 
Andreyeff 's  He  Who  Gets  Slapped  in  black  curtains  with  four 
ribbons  looped  up  to  indicate  the  form  of  a  circus  tent,  and 
Tchehoff's  The  Seagull  in  settings  which  go  back  to  the  old 
flapping  canvas  flats  again,  admitting  that  the  theater  is  a 
place  of  pretense,  and  which  then  attempt — not  very  success- 
fully— to  give  these  flats,  in  color  and  outline,  the  Form  of 
the  play. 

Still  further  along  the  way  from  Realism  to  an  expres- 
sionist stage,  you  find  Copeau's  naked  stage  in  Paris  that  unites 
frankly  with  the  auditorium,  and  changes  very  little  from 
The  S,  S,  Tenacity  to  Les  Freres  Karamazov,  Finally  in 
Vienna,  you  find,  in  the  Redoutensaal  made  from  the  ballroom 
of  Maria  Theresa's  palace,  a  theater  without  proscenium,  ma- 
chinery or  scenery,  a  theater  where  the  actor  is  frankly  the  actor. 
Here  you  have  the  culminating  expression  of  the  growing  sense 

25 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

in  Europe  that,  because  the  stage  is  so  close  to  life  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  living  actor,  it  need  not  and  it  must  not  attempt 
to  create  the  illusion  of  reality.  Through  such  a  conception 
the  theater  is  freed  once  more  to  seek  the  Form  of  life. 


26 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

THE  story  of  the  attempt  of  the  theater  to  escape 
from  Realism  is  a  curious  story.  As  a  deliberate 
effort  of  the  playwrights  to  see  life  in  the  terms  of 
Form  instead  of  accidental  actuality  it  goes  back  only  half  a 
dozen  years  through  the  dramas  of  the  Germans  who  adopted 
the  word  Expressionism  to  describe  their  aim  and  technique. 
It  has  hung  potential  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  in  the  work  of 
the  more  advanced  and  philosophic  designers  and  directors  of 
the  new  stagecraft,  a  waiting  stimulus  to  the  playwrights.  As 
an  unconscious  impulse  to  reach  beyond  the  limits  of  Realism 
its  beginnings  are  to  be  traced  back  twenty,  thirty,  almost 
forty  years  in  the  work  of  some  of  Europe's  ablest  realists. 

The  two  greatest  figures  in  the  modern  theater — which  is 
the  realistic  theater — give  the  same  demonstration  of  the  limi- 
tations of  Realism,  and  turn  in  the  same  fashion  away  from 
actuality  and  towards  an  intense  spiritual  vitality.  Both  Ibsen 
and  Strindberg  come  out  of  Romanticism  into  Realism,  and 
pass  on  into  a  Symbolism  that  is  far  on  the  way  towards  Ex- 
pressionism.   In  Ibsen  the  new  tendency  is  clearly  marked  in 

27 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

The  Wild  Duck  (1884)  and  develops  gradually  through  The 
Master  Builder  (1892)  to  completion  in  When  We  Dead 
Awaken  (1899).  Strindberg's  Towards  Damascus  (1898) 
carries  strong  hints  of  the  spiritual  intensity  which  threatened 
the  outer  reality  of  so  many  of  Strindberg's  earlier  plays;  and 
by  1902,  in  Swanwhite  and  The  Dream  Play^  he  is  well  em- 
barked on  a  type  of  non-realistic  drama  which  finds  a  bizarre 
culmination  in  The  Spook  Sonata  in  1907. 

Two  other  European  playwrights  of  distinction — ^TchehofF 
and  Wedekind — show  a  similar  dissatisfaction  with  pure  Real- 
ism, though  neither  passes  through  the  three  stages  of  develop- 
ment to  be  traced  in  Ibsen  and  Strindberg.  The  work  of 
Tchehoff  and  the  work  of  Wedekind  is  all  pretty  much  of  a 
piece.  It  is  never  wholly  realistic  in  the  narrowest  sense. 
Each  has  a  peculiar  quality  and  method  throughout.  Tchehoff, 
beginning  in  1896  with  The  Seagull^  keeps  to  a  Realism  of 
such  intense  spiritual  truth  that,  in  a  performance  of  his  The 
Cherry  Orchard  by  the  Moscow  Art  Theater  such  as  I  have 
described,  its  extraordinary  virtues  are  the  virtues  of  Expres- 
sionism. Wedekind's  first  play,  the  thesis-drama  The  Awaken- 
ing of  Springy  written  in  1891,  is  stamped  with  his  curious 
and  violent  intensity,  and  his  sense'  of  the  spiritual  overtones 
of  life.  In  1895  and  1903  he  produced  in  the  two  parts  of 
Lulu — Erdgeist  and  Pandora^s  Box — dramas  horrifically  ac- 
tual in  their  pictures  of  sexual  aberration  and  at  the  same  time 

28 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

so  intense  psychologically  and  so  sharply  defined  and  apt  in 
action  that  their  Realism  treads  close  on  the  boundaries  which 
Expressionism  has  over-passed. 

There  is  a  curious  distinction  in  end  and  means  between 
such  plays  as  these  of  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Tchehoff ,  and  Wede- 
kind,  and  the  newer  expressionist  dramas  of  Germany  and 
America.  The  earlier  plays  indulge  in  symbolic,  fantastic, 
deeply  spiritual  ideas,  but  their  language  is  almost  always  highly 
realistic.  They  are  still  bound  to  the  past  of  their  authors  and 
to  the  present  of  their  theater.  The  newer  expressionist 
dramas,  on  the  other  hand,  are  as  free  in  speech  as  they  are  in 
idea.  It  is  a  freedom  that  often  makes  a  harmonious  wedding 
of  end  and  means.  Sometimes,  as  in  plays  of  Der  Sturm  group, 
the  language  is  so  completely  free  from  the  bonds  of  actuality 
that  it  approaches  the  onomatopoetic  verse  of  Mallarme  de- 
pending on  sound  for  its  sense.  In  Eugene  O'Neill's  distin- 
guished piece  of  Expressionism,  The  Hairy  Ape^  the  play- 
wright strikes  a  happy  medium  with  speech  which  is  realistic 
and  characteristic  in  idiom  but  which  is  developed  in  idea,  in- 
tensity and  length  of  utterance  clean  past  the  possibilities  of 
the  people  of  the  play.  Occasionally  you  find  a  pseudo-expres- 
sionist piece  like  Vatermordy  by  Arnold  Bronnen,  whose  action 
is  naturalistic — grossly  naturalistic — but  whose  language  is 
often  far  from  natural.  This  piece  was  first  produced  in  Berlin 
in  the  summer  of  1922  when  the  mind  of  the  German  capital 

29 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

could  safely  be  described  as  neurotic.  Its  subject  matter — the 
incest  and  patricide  of  the  GEdipus  complex,  with  a  little  ad- 
ventitious homosexuality,  all  circling  about  a  boy  in  his  'teens 
— produced  a  stormy  session  between  adherents  and  opponents, 
a  session  finally  ended  by  the  Schutzfolizei  with  rifles  and  the 
command:  "Sei  ruhig,  meine  Herrschaften! "  The  run  which 
followed  at  one  of  the  theaters  formerly  directed  by  Max  Rein- 
hardt  may  be  explained  by  the  notorious  subject  matter,  but 
there  were  critics  to  assert  that  Bronnen  had  a  style  of  consid- 
erable power  as  well  as  novelty.  The  boy's  final  speech,  as  he 
staggers  onto  the  stage  from  an  inner  room,  where  he  has 
killed  his  father,  and  rebuffs  the  passionate  entreaties  of  his 
mother,  is  translated  from  the  printed  version,  retaining  the 
one  form  of  punctuation  used,  the  slanting  dash  to  indicate  the 
end  of  a  line,  though  not  necessarily  of  a  sentence: 

I'm  through  with  you  /  I'm  through  with  everything  /  Go  bury 
your  husband  you  are  old  /  I  am  young  /  I  don't  know  you  / 
I  am  free  / 

Nobody  in  front  of  me  nobody  next  to  me  nobody  over  me  father's 
dead  /  Heaven  I  spring  up  to  you,  I  fly  /  It  pounds  shakes  groans 
complains  must  rise  swells  wells  up  springs  up  flies  must  rise  must 
rise 

I 

I  bloom 

Before  such  an  arrangement  of  words  The  Spook  Sonata 
seems  almost  mid- Victorian.   The  Student  speaks  to  the  ghostly 

30 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

Milkmaid  in  the  most  matter  of  fact  fashion.  Even  the  old 
Mummy,  the  mad  woman  who  always  sits  in  a  closet,  talks 
like  a  most  realistic  parrot  when  she  is  not  talking  like  a  most 
realistic  woman.  Here  it  is  the  ideas  that  stagger  and  affright 
you,  the  molding  minds,  the  walking  Dead,  the  cook  who 
draws  all  the  nourishment  out  of  the  food  before  she  serves 
it,  the  terrible  relations  of  young  and  old  5  all  of  them  are 
things  having  faint  patterns  in  actuality  and  raised  by  Strind- 
berg  to  a  horrible  clarity. 

To  follow  the  banner  of  Expressionism  in  playwriting — 
I  say  nothing  of  stage  setting,  for  that  is,  happily,  another 
matter — requires  all  three  Graces  and  a  strong  stomach. 
The  bizarre  morbidity,  the  nauseating  sexuality,  the  lack  of 
any  trace  of  joy  or  beauty,  which  characterize  the  work  of 
most  of  those  who  labeled  themselves  expressionists  in  Ger- 
many during  the  past  few  years,  match  Strindberg  at  his 
unhappiest,  while  the  vigor  with  which  they  drive  their  ideas 
forth  in  speech  far  outdoes  him.  Expressionism,  in  the  nar- 
row sense  in  which  such  plays  define  it,  is  a  violent  storm  of 
emotion  beating  up  from  the  unconscious  mind.  It  is  no 
more  than  the  waves  which  shatter  themselves  on  the  shore 
of  our  conscious  existence,  only  a  distorted  hint  of  the  deep 
and  mysterious  sea  of  the  unconscious.  Expressionism,  as  we 
have  so  far  known  it,  is  a  meeting  of  the  fringes  of  the  con- 
scious and  the  unconscious,  and  the  meeting  is  startling  indeed. 

31 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Germany's  reception  of  the  expressionist  plays  was  open- 
mindedj  as  is  Germany's  reception  of  almost  all  new  effort. 
The  dramas  of  the  best  of  the  expressionists — Georg  Kaiser  and 
Walter  Hasenclever — were  produced  in  leading  theaters,  on 
the  official  stages  of  Dresden  and  of  Frankfort,  and  in 
Reinhardt's  playhouses,  for  example.  But  by  the  summer  of 
1922  they  had  disappeared  from  the  very  catholic  and  long- 
suffering  repertories  of  these  houses,  and  while  Wedekind  and 
Strindberg  were  produced  from  Stockholm  to  Vienna,  the 
simon-pure  expressionists,  the  playwrights  of  what  I  think  it 
is  fair  to  call  the  lesser  Expressionism,  were  hardly  to  be  seen. 
Only  the  one-act  opera,  Mordevy  Hojfnung  der  Frauen^  a 
composition  by  Paul  Hindemith  on  a  playlet  by  the  artist- 
author,  Oskar  Kokoschka,  was  being  played. 

This  piece,  produced  at  the  City  Opera  House  in  Frank- 
fort, points  an  interesting  union  and  parallel  between  at  least 
one  sort  of  Expressionism  and  music.  The  action,  passing 
in  some  indefinite  olden  time,  is  symbolically  very  difficult — 
quite  as  difficult  as  its  title,  Murderer y  Hope  of  Women.  The 
emotion  of  the  scenes,  on  the  other  hand,  is  clear  enough, 
and  it  receives  from  the  music  a  background  of  color,  a 
tonal  reinforcement,  that  is  most  welcome  j  at  the  same  time 
the  composer  finds  in  the  vigorous  and  intense,  if  somewhat 
arbitrary,  feeling  of  the  playwright  a  provocative  challenge. 

Kokoschka  himself  designed  a  setting  for  Mbrder^  Hojf- 

32 


A  setting  by  Ludwig  Sievert  for  Morder^  Hojf- 
nung  dcr  Frauen^  an  expressionistic  opera  by 
Kokoschka.  Ramps  lead  from  the  center  of  the 
stage  to  raised  platforms  right  and  left.  Dark 
walls  rise  at  the  back,  broken  by  triangular  en- 
trances at  either  side  and  by  a  grilled  doorway  in 
the  center,  flanked  by  tall  triangular  pylons  of  red- 
orange. 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

nung  der  Frauen  when  it  was  first  produced  at  the  Albert 
Theater  in  Dresden  as  a  play.  A  photograph  of  the  produc- 
tion betrays  an  uneasy  setting,  hardly  stage-worthy  in  arrange- 
ment and  composition,  and  rather  badly  executed.  The  pages 
of  Die  Neue  Schaubuhne  have  shown  several  other  expressionist 
stage  designs  as  unsatisfactory,  but  in  the  more  widely  known 
productions  these  pieces  have  been  lucky  enough  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  first-rate  men  like  Adolf  Linnebach  of  Dresden 
and  Ludwig  Sievert  of  Frankfort.  Sketches  made  from 
Linnebach's  production  of  Hasenclever's  Jenseits  in  Dresden 
show  a  simple  and  effective  use  of  light  and  shadow  and  of 
little  else,  with  certain  necessary  elements  of  design  projected 
by  a  sort  of  magic-lantern  technique  upon  the  background 
of  dome  or  curtain.  In  actual  performance  Sievert's  setting 
for  the  Kokoschka  opera  is  strong  and  arresting  with  dark  sur- 
faces massed  in  triangles  symbolic  of  the  feminine  element 
dominant  in  the  piece,  and  with  a  successful,  if  not  very 
subtle,  use  of  red  and  red-orange  on  the  pylon  surfaces  guard- 
ing the  prison  door.  The  direction  of  the  singers  and  chorus, 
under  the  hand  of  Dr.  Ernst  Lert,  is  a  thoroughly  expressive 
part  of  music  and  setting. 

Though  the  most  celebrated  plays  of  the  expressionist  pio- 
neers have  failed  to  make  a  place  for  themselves  in  the  Ger- 
man repertory,  they  have  had  their  effect.  Playwrights  who 
might  have  written  in  the  conventional  moae  have  been 

33 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

turned  towards  a  freer  technique,  and  they  have  succeeded  in 
accomplishing  interesting  and  promising  things.  The  most 
notable  of  the  plays  thus  produced,  Masse-Mensch^  deserves  a 
chapter  to  itself.  I  shall  write  here  of  two  lesser  works  by 
Karel  Capek,  one  seen  in  the  Czech  National  Theater,  where 
it  was  first  produced,  the  other  read  in  a  German  transla- 
tion. 

In  the  first.  The  Insect  Comedy^  Karel  Capek's  brother,  a 
scenic  artist,  has  a  share  as  collaborator.  It  is  a  fantastic 
and  picturesque  piece  of  satire  providing  excellent  opportuni- 
ties for  the  newer  methods  in  production.  It  is  a  comment  on 
post-war  conditions  as  symbolized  in  the  life  of  butterflies, 
beetles,  and  ants.  The  prolog  finds  a  young  man  wandering 
in  the  woods,  and  puts  him  comfortably  to  sleep  on  a  grassy 
bank  after  a  little  talk  with  an  absurdly  pedantical  entomolo- 
gist. He  sleeps  through  the  three  succeeding  acts  surrounded 
and  occasionally  disturbed  by  figures  of  insects  grown  life-size. 
The  first  act  passes  with  the  brilliant  butterflies,  who  stand 
for  the  heedless,  unproductive  men  and  women  of  the  social 
and  pseudo-artistic  worlds  with  time  for  only  chatter  and  flirta- 
tion while  disaster  rumbles  beneath  them.  In  the  produc- 
tion of  this  scene,  the  regisseur^  K.  H.  Hilar,  keeps  the 
players  moving  ceaselessly,  their  hands  and  heads  lightly  undu- 
lating, with  the  restlessness  of  the  antennseed  world,  while  high 
around  the  back  of  the  scene  various  of  the  brightly  costumed 

34 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

insects  constantly  dance  behind  the  translucent  curtain  of  the 
woods. 

In  the  second  scene  the  humble  grubs  crawl  in  and  out  of 
their  burrows  on  busy  errands  of  accumulation.  These  are 
the  assiduous  profiteers  and  misers  of  war-time  society.  The 
act  ends  in  a  broad  touch  of  comedy.  A  beetle  has  been  mur- 
dering passing  insects  and  dragging  their  bodies  down  below 
for  his  wife  to  hoard.  There  enters  The  Parasite,  a  tramp 
bug.  He  does  not  work.  Why  should  he?  He  has  only  to 
wait  for  the  busy  capitalists  of  his  world  to  fill  their  larders. 
Then,  when  the  time  comes,  he  will  rise — or  more  accurately 
descend — and  the  wealth  of  the  world  will  be  his.  He  ducks 
into  the  beetle's  hole,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  comes  up,  a 
swollen  and  jovial  Communist,  dancing  in  glee.  The  ever- 
present  prompter's  box  serves  conveniently  for  one  of  the 
holes,  and  the  background  of  green  and  black  woods  is  pro- 
jected instead  of  painted;  otherwise  there  is  little  of  interest 
in  the  staging  of  this  scene. 

The  third  act  carries  us  to  the  ants.  Here  are  the  eternal 
laborers,  tramping  in  an  endless  circle  upon  their  work,  under 
the  eye  of  superiors  very  like  ofEcers  and  to  a  rhythm  beaten 
out  by  a  more  privileged  one  of  their  own  number.  The 
Capeks  costume  the  army  of  ants  in  khaki,  puttees  and  all, 
and  provide  a  desolate  hill  for  a  background.  It  might  be 
blasted  by  either  war  or  commerce.    Into  its  surface  descend 

35 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

shafts  that  might  lead  to  either  mines  or  dugouts.  A  glower- 
ing background  of  crazy  chimneys  and  telegraph  poles  and 
smoke — all  projected  on  the  cyclorama — completes  the  picture. 
Presently  there  come  shouting  and  a  courier.  More  couriers. 
War  threatens.  The  ants  drop  their  burdens  for  rifles  and 
continue  their  march.  The  ofBcer-ants  assume  a  higher  sta- 
tion and  even  loftier  phrases  of  command,  from  the  back  they 
philosophize  and  give  orders  in  good  old  Kaiser-fashion.  The 
act  culminates  with  a  conflict  and  the  lordship  of  a  new  race 
of  ants. 

The  epilog  is  divided  between  the  appearance  from  her 
chrysalis  of  an  ephemera  of  whom  the  sleeping  man  has  been 
dimly  and  hopefully  conscious  in  the  last  two  scenes,  her 
death  after  a  dance  with  other  short-lived  mayflies,  and  the 
despairing  end  of  the  human  visitor.  This  end  is  commented 
upon  in  a  half  satiric  and  half  aspiring  vein  through  the  intro- 
duction of  a  group  of  wanderers  who  come  upon  the  dead 
body,  gaze  at  it  in  astonishment  and  sadness  for  a  moment, 
and  then  pass  on,  singing,  upon  the  ever-creative  way  of 
the  peasant. 

JR.  Z7.  JR.,  Karel  Capek's  other  play  (in  German,  W.U,R.) 
is  a  tale  of  a  Frankenstein  such  as  H.  G.  Wells  might  have 
written  in  his  earlier  days.  It  seems  both  gruesomely  effective 
and  at  times  philosophic.  The  letters  "R.  U.  R."  are 
an  abbreviation  of  the  name  of  a  firm  engaged  in  manufac- 

36 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

turing  ^'Roboters^"^^  or  workmen  stamped  out  and  given  life 
by  a  machine.  After  a  not  very  skilful  exposition  of  the 
nature  of  this  new  device  for  lightening  the  world's  work, 
the  play  passes  on  to  show  the  degenerating  effect  upon  man- 
kind of  ceasing  to  labor.  The  ^'Roboters^^  are  given  pain  in 
order  to  remind  them  not  to  be  careless  and  break  their  legs 
and  arms.  Thereupon  they  acquire  something  not  unlike  a 
soul.  Presently  comes  a  consciousness  of  their  station  and 
their  power.  They  rise  and  kill  all  mankind — except  one 
man.  Later  they  find  to  their  dismay  that  the  secret  formula 
of  the  materials  from  which  they  were  stamped  out  has  been 
destroyed.  They  wear  out  in  twenty  years.  And  there 
will  be  an  end.  The  last  act  shows  their  frantic  appeal 
for  a  way  to  perpetuate  themselves.  The  one  man  finds 
it  at  last  when  he  recognizes  love  awakening  in  a  male  and 
a  female  '^Roboter?'^  The  process  of  mankind  will  begin  once 
more.  Rather  the  sort  of  end  that  Anatole  France  would 
have  put  to  the  story — Frankenstein  turned  man. 

None  of  this,  of  course — either  Kaiser  or  Capek — is  Expres- 
sionism very  far  on  its  way.  Some  of  it  is  trivial.  Some  is 
interesting  enough.  Much  is  decadent  or  uncertain.  But  it 
is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  there  is  something  of  the  future 
in  it.  It  is  a  sign.  There  is  a  starlike  gleam  in  even  the  worst 
of  the  mire.  Vitality,  though  often  a  morbid  vitality,  ani- 
mates it.   When  we  see  Eugene  O'Neill  saying  Nay  to  Real- 

37 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ism  in  the  same  fashion,  and  turning  out  so  strong  and  sig- 
nificant a  play  as  The  Hairy  Ape — a  play  that  grows  greater 
in  the  perspective  of  Europe — it  is  not  very  difficult  to  hope 
and  to  look  forward. 

In  the  artists  who  give  Expressionism  a  physical  form  and 
a  pictorial  atmosphere  upon  the  stage  we  find  still  more  of 
hope.  They  have  gone  more  quickly  and  more  securely 
towards  their  goal.  They  have  had  a  disciplinary  practice 
upon  the  plays  of  an  earlier  time,  a  time  before  Realism. 
They  are  freed  from  the  moral  problems  of  the  writer;  and 
where  their  work  is  distempered  with  the  morbidity, 
the  unhealthiness,  of  so  much  of  our  time,  the  result  is  less 
obvious  in  color  or  design  than  it  would  be  if  it  took  the 
form  of  words.  And  they  have  had  behind  them  the  history 
and  the  example  of  the  movement  in  art  which  we  once  called 
Post-Impressionism,  but  which  follows  logically  into  Expres- 
sionism, the  movement  of  Cezanne,  Van  Gogh,  Matisse, 
Picasso,  Duchamp. 

The  problem  for  the  expressionist  play  is  the  problem  of 
music.  And  yet  not  its  problem;  for  music,  being  so  markedly 
apart  from  actuality  in  its  materials,  has  made  few  and  not 
very  successful  attempts  at  the  Realism  which  has  swamped 
our  stage.  Music  has  been  by  very  nature  expressionistic.  It 
has  failed  whenever,  as  program  music,  it  approached  the 
suggestion  of  the  actual.    For  the  rest,  it  has  soared,  soared 

38 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  PLAY 

easily,  surely,  towards  direct  expression  of  spiritual  reality. 
Expressionism  in  the  theater  has  to  seek  the  way  of  music, 
the  way  towards  beauty  and  ecstasy.  The  difficulty  of  the 
playwright  is  that  he  must  always  feel  the  pull  of  the  actual 
life  about  himj  he  must  make  his  drama  out  of  human  beings 
and  not  out  of  pure  vision  or  pure  emotional  response.  The 
world  about  him  is  corrupt  and  corrupting  outwardly,  as  well 
as  beautiful  and  wonderful  within.  He  cannot,  like  the 
musician,  leap  away  from  its  entanglements  by  putting  his 
hands  to  an  instrument  of  abstract  art.  But  he  can  gain  a 
certain  release  by  forswearing  as  much  as  possible  the  repro- 
duction of  the  actual. 


39 


CHAPTER  IV 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

TO-DAY  we  are  thinking  more  and  more  of  the 
future  of  the  theater,  the  future  of  the  play  and 
the  playwright,  the  future  of  production,  of  direc- 
tion and  the  actor. 

If  we  are  to  think  of  the  future  to  any  effect,  we  must  think 
of  the  past  as  well  as  the  present.  The  path  of  to-morrow 
strikes  off  from  the  maze  of  to-day.  To  guess  at  its  direction 
with  much  chance  of  success,  we  must  look  now  and  then  at 
the  map  of  the  settled  roads  of  yesterday. 

If  we  want  to  estimate  the  chances  of  the  non-realistic 
play  to  advance  beyond  its  expressionist  beginnings  in  Ger- 
many, we  must  try  to  understand  the  present  state  of  the  art 
of  theatrical  production,  and  the  past  of  play  and  players,  the 
theater  and  its  stagecraft.  A  share  of  the  future — a  very 
large  share,  I  believe — may  lie  with  America;  but  the  past 
is  Continental.   And  a  surprising  amount  of  the  past  is  German. 

The  past  of  the  play  shows  one  interesting  peculiarity.  The 
great  plays  of  the  romantic  movement  were  developed  where 
there  were  great  theaters,  in  France  and  in  Germany.  Quite 

40 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

otherv/ise  with  Realism.  Its  greatest  works — the  plays  of 
Ibsen  and  Strindberg — were  created  in  small  countries  almost 
outside  the  consciousness  of  the  nineteenth  century  theater. 
This  was  natural  enough.  Realistic  plays  were,  in  the  last 
analysis,  lonely  literary  rationalizations.  They  were  not 
theatrical.  They  did  not  spring  out  of  the  theater.  Instead 
they  altered  the  theater  to  suit  their  needs.  The  theater  that 
they  altered  most  was  the  German  theater,  and  there  the  dramas 
of  the  Scandinavians  found  their  best  audience. 

But  the  German  theater,  being  a  healthy  theater,  could  not 
stop  at  the  point  where  it  became  an  almost  perfect  mechanism 
for  presenting  these  plays.  Its  directors  and  its  artists  went 
on  experimenting.  They  had  old  plays  to  mount,  also,  plays 
out  of  the  romantic  and  classic  periods.  They  put  their  brains 
and  their  machines  at  work  upon  these  pieces,  as  well  as  upon 
the  realistic,  and  soon  they  had  developed  methods  of  pro- 
duction for  non-realistic  plays  quite  as  admirable  for  the  pur- 
pose as  any  of  their  tricks  for  lifting  the  fourth  wall  before 
our  very  eyes.  The  German  theatrical  organization  became 
more  and  more  restive  under  the  realistic  plays  and  the  old 
"classics."  It  was  preparing  for  something  new.  The  ZeiU 
geist  was  working.  Soon  it  began  to  work  upon  the  play- 
wrights. There  came  abortive  beginnings  in  the  expressionist 
plays  I  have  written  about  in  the  last  chapter.  And  the  Ger- 
man theater  went  on — and  goes  on — experimenting. 

41 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Let  us  look  at  this  theater  a  little  more  closely.  For  it  is 
the  Continental  theater  to-day  as  it  was  yesterday;  France 
has  only  Copeau,  England  experiments  in  little  theaters  as 
America  experimented  ten  years  ago.  And  where  the  Con- 
tinental theater  is,  there  we  are  very  likely  indeed  to  find  the 
Continental  play  of  the  future.  The  expressionist  drama,  like 
every  school  of  drama  except  the  realistic,  is  a  product  of  the 
theater  in  form  and  vitality,  quite  as  much  as  it  is  a  product 
of  society  in  its  mind  and  materials. 

The  story  of  the  artistic  development  of  the  German 
theater  past  the  realistic  stage  is  familiar  enough.  It  began 
in  1905,  it  was  fairly  complete  by  1914.  It  was  founded 
upon  Gordon  Craig  and  Adolphe  Appia,  and  it  is  symbolized 
in  the  name  of  Max  Reinhardt.  It  made  Realism  still  for 
Ibsen  and  Strindberg;  but  it  plowed  past  the  Realism  of  Otto 
Brahm — which  is  the  Realism  of  Belasco — and  it  achieved  a 
pregnant  actuality  so  direct  and  simple  that  it  soon  gave  birth 
to  a  new  imagination. 

The  new  methods  of  production  are  fairly  easy  to  grasp. 
They  rest  on  a  few  general  principles.  The  pretenses  of  the 
theater  had  to  be  successful  pretenses.  To  begin  with,  certain 
tricks  of  the  old  theater  were  forsworn,  tricks  in  the  main 
that  failed  to  succeed.  Such  an  obvious  pretense  as  painted 
perspective  had  to  go.  Footlights  had  to  be  curbed  3  for  the 
illumination  must  be  both  more  natural  and  more  beautiful. 

42 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

But,  beyond  these  negative  things,  the  directors  sought  to 
achieve  positive  effects  for  which  they  had  to  call  into  the 
theater  artists  of  first-rate  ability.  The  business  of  these  artists, 
whether  working  on  a  realistic  play  or  an  imaginative  one,  was 
to  evoke  the  atmosphere  of  the  piece  in  setting  and  in  lights. 
They  fell  back  on  three  general  principles  to  aid  their  sense 
of  line  and  color  in  visually  dramatizing  the  action.  In  the 
first  place  they  simplified  the  stage  picture.  They  subordi- 
nated or  eliminated  detail.  They  put  as  little  as  possible  on 
the  stage  that  might  distract  the  spectator  from  the  meaning 
of  the  general  design  (which  was  the  meaning  of  the  play), 
or  from  the  actions  and  speeches  of  the  characters.  Then, 
by  an  adroit  use  of  simple  materials  and  forms,  they  enriched 
the  setting — along  the  lines  of  the  play — through  suggestion. 
One  detail  suggested  the  nature  of  the  whole.  The  base  of  a 
huge  column  made  the  audience  visualize  for  itself  the  size 
of  the  building.  Half  an  arch  springing  off  into  darkness 
created  the  impression  of  a  great  vaulted  structure.  Finally 
came  a  synthesis  of  all  the  available  and  appropriate  forces 
of  the  theater,  and  of  all  the  qualities  of  the  play  3  this  imply- 
ing for  the  director  the  establishment  of  a  certain  apt  rhythm 
in  the  performance. 

This  pictorial  reform,  backed  by  such  direction  and  acting 
as  the  German  theater  alone  was  able  to  supply,  and  utilizing 
all  manner  of  mechanical  devices  for  scene-shifting  and  light- 

43 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ing,  has  stood  to  us  for  some  ten  years  as  the  so-called  new 
movement  in  the  theater.  It  has  been  familiar  through  the 
names  of  Craig  and  Appia  as  pioneer  theorists,  of  Reinhardt, 
and  of  artists  like  Ernst  Stern  and  Alfred  Roller;  through  an 
occasional  production  from  abroad,  like  Reinhardt's  Sumurun; 
and,  at  last,  through  the  exceptional  work  of  our  own  artists 
in  America  and  the  men — from  Arthur  Hopkins  to  directors 
of  little  theaters — who  have  gi\en  them  their  opportunities 
or  amplified  their  conceptions. 

Fringing  the  outside  of  all  this  in  the  past  have  been  bastard 
minglings  of  old  technique  and  new  spirit,  such  as  Bakst  and 
the  Ballets  Russes  displayed,  and  the  beginnings  of  theory 
and  experiment  leading  towards  a  new — or  a  very  old — sort 
of  theater,  a  theater  cut  off  from  the  whole  peep-hole  con- 
vention of  the  proscenium  and  the  fourth  wall. 

The  strength  of  this  movement  in  Germany  lay  partly  in 
a  very  few  talented  directors  like  Reinhardt  and  artists  like 
Stern,  but  very  greatly  in  the  vigorous  and  healthy  organiza- 
tion of  the  German  theater.  Because  of  the  division  of  Ger- 
many in  small  kingdoms  and  duchies,  there  had  always  been 
many  centers  of  artistic  life,  each  about  a  court  in  the  capital. 
In  a  score  of  cities,  enriched  by  industrial  development,  there 
were  theaters  endowed  by  the  state  or  the  city,  and  directed 
towards  the  highest  artistic  accomplishment.  In  the  larger 
cities  privately  owned  theaters  followed  the  lead  of  the  public 

44 


The  Palace:  a  setting  by  Hans  Strohbach  for  Der 
Traurriy  ein  Leben^  a  fantasy  by  Calderon.  Col- 
umns of  dull  gold,  painted  to  suggest  a  spiral 
shape,  are  spaced  against  a  black  curtain,  which  is 
later  drawn  aside  to  reveal  a  blood-red  sky.  In 
the  foreground  a  group  of  plotting  Orientals. 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

institutions.  The  strength  of  these  houses  lay  in  their  endow- 
ment, their  ideals,  and  their  system  of  organization.  This  was 
the  repertory  system.  Here,  as  nowhere  in  England  or  Amer- 
ica and  only  here  or  there  in  France,  were  theaters  directed 
by  a  single  mind,  employing  a  permanent  company  of  players, 
maintaining  a  repertory  of  plays,  old  and  new,  given  in 
recurring  succession  night  after  night,  theaters  retaining 
therefore  a  permanent  audience,  dependable  both  in  pocket- 
book  and  in  taste.  Supplementing  these  theaters  were  organi- 
zations of  playgoers  among  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  such 
as  the  Freie  Volksbiihne  in  Berlin,  which  widened  the  aud- 
ience of  subscribers  to  good  work  in  the  theater.  Between 
endowment  and  the  security  of  a  permanent  audience,  it  was 
possible  for  these  German  theaters  to  give  uncommonly  fine 
performances  at  uncommonly  low  prices. 

Along  with  the  development  of  new  methods  in  produc- 
tion went  a  good  deal  of  activity  in  theater  building.  In 
practice,  as  well  as  in  theory.  Max  Littmann  and  Oskar  Kauf- 
mann,  following  Schinkel  and  Semper,  who  had  worked  with 
Goethe  and  Wagner,  did  much  to  improve  the  auditoriums  of 
German  theaters.  The  result  is  not  so  marked  as  in  the  case 
of  the  scenic  artists.  Most  of  the  theaters  are  old  indeed  and 
awkwardly  shaped,  and  too  many  of  the  new  ones  continue  the 
tradition  of  a  parquet  surrounded  and  surmounted  by  three 
or  four  shallow,  horseshoe-shaped  balconies.    These  balconies 

45 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

are  not  so  good  to  see  or  hear  from  as  our  own.  A  realization 
of  the  awkwardness  of  these  shelves  or  Rangen^  as  they  are 
termed  in  German,  produced  an  opposition,  headed  by  Litt- 
mann,  that  called  for  their  elimination  and  for  the  substitution 
of  an  amphitheater  type  of  house  with  no  balconies  and  with  a 
steeper  floor  to  allow  of  better  sightlines.  The  fight  of  Ring 
vs.  Rang  has  resulted  in  several  auditoriums  designed  by  Litt- 
mann,  the  Prinzregenten  Theater  and  the  Kiinstler,  for  ex- 
ample, in  Munich,  the  slant  of  whose  floors  is  far  too  sharp; 
from  the  upper  rows,  the  players  are  seen  as  in  some  far-off 
pit.  The  slant  is  greater  than  necessary,  and  absolutely 
straight;  the  practice  of  the  American  architect,  H.  C.  Ingalls, 
of  grading  the  floor  in  a  gradually  increasing  curve,  produces 
a  far  better  efltect.  A  compromise  between  Rang  and  Ring 
might  be  found  in  a  development  of  the  American  house 
with  only  one  balcony;  a  more  steeply  slanting  floor  than  we 
ordinarily  have  would  thus  bring  two  amphitheaters  or  Rings 
into  a  single  auditorium.  Germany  possesses,  however,  some 
admirable  playhouses  in  the  Kammerspielhaus  formerly 
directed  by  Reinhardt  in  Berlin,  in  the  Volksbiihne  designed 
by  Oskar  Kaufmann,  and  in  many  features  of  the  Kiinstler 
Theater.  The  seating  arrangements  have  formed  one  of  the 
best  features  of  the  German  houses.  The  chairs  are  almost 
always  too  thinly  padded;  but  the  elimination  of  aisles  more 
than  compensates.    The  whole  audience  is  united  in  a  single 

46 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

responsive  body.  And  because  each  row  is  a  little  wider  than 
ours  and  the  side  walls  of  the  auditoriums  are  liberally  sup- 
plied with  doorSj  the  audience  empties  out  more  quickly  than 
ours  and  in  an  orderly  manner  that  puts  American  fire-regula- 
tions to  shame.  I  have  seen  the  three  thousand  spectators  of 
the  Volksbiihne  walk  out  in  a  single  minute.  It  takes  from 
three  to  four  for  a  small  theater  in  New  York,  seating  only 
six  hundred,  to  clear  itself. 

A  factor  that  has  done  a  great  deal  for  the  progress  of  the 
German  theater  and  the  reputation  of  the  new  stagecraft,  is 
the  liberal  attitude  of  the  German  periodicals  and  publishing 
houses  towards  new  things  in  the  theater.  Editors  and  writers 
have  been  so  eager  to  present  to  the  public  every  smallest  re- 
form in  setting  or  theater  that  the  world  has  gained  rather 
an  optimistic  view  of  the  extent  of  production  progress  in 
Germany.  Just  as  it  is  a  fact  that  only  in  a  few  theaters  will 
you  find  model  auditoriums  in  Central  Europe,  in  a  similar 
way  you  discover  that  the  outstanding  work  of  design  before 
the  war  was  done  by  two  men,  Stern  and  Roller,  and  that  the 
other  men  whose  names  decorate  the  records  of  the  new  stage- 
craft were  each  responsible  for  only  a  few  productions. 

One  thing  further  you  may  learn  about  the  past  of  the  Ger- 
man movement,  even  in  an  investigation  so  late  as  the  summer 
of  1922.  And  that  is  that  the  color  in  a  great  majority  of 
the  stage  settings  has  been  very  far  from  good.   The  German 

47 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

has  an  ear,  a  very  marvelous  ear;  only  the  Russian  can  approach 
him  in  music,  and  it  is  not  a  near  approach.  But  his  eye  is  bad- 
Germany  has  produced  no  first-rate  artists  except  Durer, 
Schongauer  and  perhaps  Cranach,  and  Diirer  and  Schongauer 
are  celebrated  as  etchers  rather  than  as  painters.  That  should 
have  been  caution  enough  for  those  of  us  who  had  to  study 
the  German  stage  at  the  distance  of  the  half-tone.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  is  that  the  German  is  a  splendid  theorist,  a  man 
of  large  conceptions,  and  that  therefore  in  the  theater  he  has 
been  able  to  design  settings  of  simple  and  excellent  proportions, 
which  create  a  good  effect  in  black-and-white.  It  is  his  sense 
of  color  that  is  at  fault.  Stern,  with  the  mixture  of  the  Orien- 
tal in  his  blood  which  did  so  much  for  Bakst,  and  some  of 
the  artists  from  Vienna  and  the  South  brought  something 
to  the  stage  besides  dramatic  imagination  and  sense  of  propor- 
tion.   The  test  of  color  downs  the  rest. 

When  we  think  of  the  future  of  the  German  theater  we 
must  naturally  think  of  the  present  also,  and  it  is  a  black 
present.  Germany  has  been  shattered  spiritually  as  well  as 
economically.  It  has  fallen  from  dreams  of  world-dominion 
to  bankruptcy  and  enslavement.  The  effect  of  this  upon  the 
mind  of  the  citizen  who  has  come  through  four  years  of  danger 
and  privation,  is  staggering.  One  incident  of  the  fall,  which 
you  learn  upon  visiting  Germany,  is  sharply  significant.  Until 
the  soldiers  from  the  broken  German  armies  began  to  stream 

48 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

back  into  the  Rhine  provinces  in  November^  1918,  the  men 
and  women  behind  the  front  believed  that  their  forces  were 
victorious.  It  is  possible  for  the  theater  to  go  on  physically 
under  almost  any  conditions  of  privation;  but  you  must  reckon 
spiritually  with  an  extraordinary  state  of  the  public  mind  when 
you  prophesy  the  future  of  the  German  theater.  Two  things, 
perhaps,  make  optimism  possible.  One:  Germany  and  the 
German  people  have  gone  through  terrible  things  before;  there 
was  the  Thirty  Years  War.  Two :  Germany  still  has  the  won- 
derfully trained  audience  of  pre-war  days;  it  was  a  broad 
democratic  audience,  and  no  shift  in  economic  circumstances 
can  destroy  so  large  a  part  of  the  cultured  playgoers  as  war- 
poverty  has  done  in  England,  in  France,  and  even  to  some 
extent  in  America. 

War — backed  by  the  movies — has  done  its  worst  in  the 
Berlin  theater.  Here  we  find  another  example  of  the  exchange 
of  ideals  and  personalities  which  has  often  been  noted  between 
victor  and  vanquished.  Just  as  America  has  been  Prussianized 
in  its  attitude  towards  the  foreigner  and  the  liberal  or  radical 
minority,  Berlin  has  adopted  many  of  the  most  evil  features 
of  the  American  theatrical  system.  Within  three  years  of 
the  close  of  hostilities  Berlin  was  being  rapidly  Broadway- 
ized.  Repertory  was  practically  dead  at  all  but  three  or  four 
theaters.  Facing  economic  difficulties  and  the  competition 
of  the  movies  for  the  services  of  the  actors,  Berlin  found 

49 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

it  was  a  large  enough  city  to  support  long  runs  for  exceptionally- 
great  or  exceptionally  mediocre  plays.  Even  the  three  thea- 
ters that  Reinhardt  formerly  directed  broke  from  repertory, 
and  where  they  had  once  shown  ten  or  a  dozen  productions 
in  two  weeks,  they  showed  only  three  or  (counting  Sunday 
matinees  of  some  old  favorites)  four.  Outside  Berlin,  reper- 
tory continues  in  the  State  and  City  theaters  and  even  in  private 
ventures  j  but  many  artistic  playhouses  are  badly  crippled  by 
the  economic  troubles  of  the  nation,  and  some  are  forced  to 
close  down. 

There  are  certain  good  signs.  The  theaters  were  full  in 
1922.  In  fifty  or  sixty  visits  to  the  theater  it  was  only  at 
musical  comedies  that  I  saw  more  than  one  row  of  vacant 
seats;  in  all  but  half  a  dozen  cases  every  seat  was  sold  and 
occupied.  The  prices  were  not  high.  In  Frankfort,  an  aver- 
age city  of  the  larger  size,  the  highest  prices  ranged  from 
sixty  marks  (at  that  time  twenty  cents)  to  one  hundred  and 
twenty  marks,  depending  on  the  expensiveness  or  the  popu- 
larity of  the  production  5  while  the  lowest  prices  for  seats 
were  twenty  marks  to  seventy  marks,  with  standing  room  at 
six  marks. 

At  such  prices  even  full  houses  do  not  make  budgets  easy 
to  balance.  The  theater  of  post-war  Germany  must  be  eco- 
nomical in  its  expenditures.  That  is  not,  howev^.r,  such  an 
artistic  hardship  as  much  of  the  talk  of  elaborate  machinery 

50 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

and  handsome  productions  in  pre-war  days  might  suggest. 
Rigorous  physical  simplicity  and  a  reliance  on  the  genius  of 
design  instead  of  elaboration  of  mechanics  are  the  vital  needs 
in  stage  setting  to-day.  Germany  has  done  fine  things  in  the 
simplifying  of  production,  and  it  has  done  them  in  spite  of 
the  temptations  of  bulging  pocketbooks.  What  it  may  be 
forced  to  do  now  through  poverty  is  a  matter  for  real  hope. 

The  danger — for  there  is  a  danger — is  that  smaller  minds 
may  find  an  excuse  for  a  mean  sort  of  simplicity,  a  bareness 
and  barrenness  of  spirit.  There  has  always  been  a  tendency 
among  the  modern  directors  and  designers  to  economize  spirit- 
ually as  well  as  economically.  The  results  have  been  seen  in 
some  of  our  dry,  meager  "little  theater"  productions,  full  of 
bare  formalism — a  sort  of  "simplism''  that  has  no  place  in 
any  art,  let  alone  in  the  live,  varied,  rich,  and  vigorous  theater. 
Occasionally  a  German  artist  of  real  talent  falls  into  this  thin 
manner  3  Ludwig  Sievert  has  mounted  Towards  Damascus  at 
the  Frankfort  Schauspielhaus  upon  a  scheme  which  is  physi- 
cally interesting,  but  he  has  given  his  settings  a  mean,  arid, 
spiritually  poverty-stricken  appearance  which  is  never  beauti- 
ful, and  does  not  express  in  the  least  the  intense  quality  of 
Strindberg's  play. 

The  movies  break  up  ensemble  in  Germany,  and  bear  down 
on  repertory.  They  offer  salaries  that  the  actor,  impoverished 
quite  as  much  as  the  worker,  cannot  resist.    Moreover  they 

51 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

demand  from  him  the  daylight  hours  which  must  be  given 
to  rehearsals  of  old  and  new  pieces  if  repertory  is  to  exist. 
The  German  actor  cannot  appear  in  a  repertory  theater  in  the 
eveningSj  as  our  actor  can  appear  upon  Broadway,  and  put  in 
his  days  in  front  of  the  camera,  as  ours  often  does.  But — 
and  this  is  highly  important — the  German  actor  has  been 
trained  in  a  school  of  ideals  and  self-expression  which  makes 
him  demand  more  than  the  movies  can  give  him.  He  must 
have  some  sort  of  serious  work  in  the  theater,  and  he  is  find- 
ing it  more  and  more  in  special  summer  engagements  or 
Festspiele,  Thus  many  of  the  greatest  of  the  nation's  players 
are  often  assembled  at  salaries  which,  by  comparison  with  their 
motion  picture  earnings,  are  hardly  salaries  at  all. 

There  remains  the  spirit  of  the  German  people.  The  audi- 
ences are  intact  and  intelligent,  but  what  about  their  spirit? 
Can  these  people  live  down  their  sufferings  or  lift  them  up 
to  something  great  outside  themselves?  The  prospect  is  not 
so  dark  in  the  southern  parts,  in  Bavaria,  perhaps  j  it  is  cer- 
tainly bright  in  Austria,  where  hunger  and  economic  misery 
are  the  realest  and  where  the  divinity  of  the  human  spirit  is 
asserted  again  and  again  in  every  happy  gesture  of  this  lovely 
people.  In  Berlin  it  is  another  matter.  Spiritual  dejection 
and  gnawing  misery  are  in  the  face  of  every  one.  They  are 
to  be  seen  on  the  stage,  too.  Berlin  does  not  go  to  the  theater 
to  be  taken  out  of  itself  3  it  seems  to  neglect  the  prime  use  of  art. 

52 


BLACK  CURTAINS 

Berlin  demands  an  echoing  misery  from  its  playhouses.  It 
goes  to  see  a  blacker  and  more  despicable  Richard  III  than 
Shakespeare  ever  imagined.  It  suffers  the  torments  of  dis- 
illusioned revolution  in  Masse-Mensch  at  the  working  people'^s 
theater.  It  throngs  the  glowering  caverns  of  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus.  And  everywhere  the  stage  is  hung  in  black 
curtains.  "Warum  immer  die  schwarzen  Vorhange?"  we 
ask  again  and  again.  Perhaps  they  are  only  an  accident  of  the 
attempt  to  get  a  background  of  emptiness;  but  they  become  a 
yawning  gulf  of  spiritual  blackness.  The  only  colors  to  break 
the  pall  are  the  red  of  blood,  and  the  blue  that  strikes  across 
the  black  a  symbol  of  a  sinister  cruelty. 

Of  course,  black  curtains  are  no  Teuton  monopoly.  When 
the  Russian  Pitoeff  uses  them  in  Paris,  when  we  see  them  on 
Broadway  and  in  our  "little  theaters,"  we  do  not  look  for  the 
words  "Made  in  Germany''  on  the  selvage.  But  in  Germany 
they  seem  numerous  and  more  significant.  If  the  curtains 
were  sometimes  dappled  with  gray  or  if  they  were  opalescent 
with  hidden  lights,  they  might  be  significant  of  nothing  more 
than  the  Germans'  immensely  active  experiments  with  a  for- 
mal stage.  Perhaps  bunte  Vorhange  are  coming.  Perhaps 
it  is  always  a  little  dark  before  dawn. 


53 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

THERE  are  many  things  upon  the  German  stage 
besides  black  dawn.    The  twilight  of  the  machines, 
for  instance,  and  all  the  past  of  the  new  stagecraft 
lagging  superfluous. 

Even  the  past  of  the  old  stagecraft.  In  the  same  ^-.heater 
in  Frankfort  where  one  of  the  three  significant  pairs  of  Ger- 
man directors  and  artists  labors,  I  have  seen  Peer  Gynt  given 
as  incompetently  as  any  patron  of  an  American  small-town 
stock  company  could  demand.  The  settings  were  hideous  5 
the  same  badly  painted  backdrop  served  for  two  or  three  scenes 
in  different  localities;  the  revolving  stage  rumbled  noisily  and 
did  nothing  to  shorten  intermissions.  While  the  orchestra 
played  Grieg's  introductory  music  in  the  wings  and  the  stage 
was  dark,  waiting  actors,  who  imagined  that  thereby  ears  as 
well  as  eyes  were  dimmed,  restlessly  shifted  from  one  foot 
to  another  in  squeaky  shoes.  At  the  beginning  of  each  scene 
the  lights  came  up  like  thunder.  Through  as  many  scenes 
as  could  be  endured,  the  same  players  who  gave  a  sharp,  almost 
electric  performance  of  Maria  Stuart  the  next  night,  acted 

54 


The  sleep-walking  scene  from  Macbeth  as  pro- 
duced by  Harald  Andre  at  the  Royal  Opera  in 
Stockholm.  Moonlight  slants  down  through  four 
tall  windows  making  alternate  bars  of  light  and 
shadow,  through  which  moves  the  white-robed 
figure  of  Lady  Macbeth.  The  Doctor  and  the 
Gentlewoman  are  half -hidden  at  one  side  in  the 
darkness  of  the  foreground. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

Peer  Gynt  dully  and  sloppily  to  a  running  fire  of  assistance 
from  the  prompter's  box.  It  is  worth  remarking,  inciden- 
tally, that  the  souffleuvy  as  he  is  euphemistically  called,  is  no 
necessity  in  the  repertory  theater.  He  may  give  a  complete 
and  studied  reading  of  the  text  one  lap  ahead  of  the  actors 
in  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  the  Frankfort  Schauspielhaus, 
the  Burgtheater  in  Vienna,  the  Lessing  Theater  in  Berlin, 
and  a  dozen  other  first-class  theaters;  but  you  don't  hear  his 
voice  in  the  State  Schauspielhaus  of  Berlin  under  Jessner,  in 
Copeau's  Vieux-Colombier  in  Paris,  or  during  a  performance 
of  Masse-Mensch  at  the  Volksbiihne. 

The  past  of  the  German  stage  is  seldom  slovenly,  but  it  is 
often  disturbing.  To  see  in  1922  a  setting  by  Roller  for  T)le 
Meistersinger  is  like  encountering  at  a  fashionable  New  York 
the  iansant  the  girl  you  used  to  take  to  high  school  dances  in 
St.  Louis  in  1907.  The  German  stage  is  full  of  such  dis- 
quieting reminders  of  juvenile  infatuations 5  Sweden  is  not 
exempt.  The  work  of  the  pioneers  and  imitations  of  the  work 
of  the  pioneers  are  still  to  be  seen.  Verdi's  Macbeth  a  la  Craig 
at  the  Stockholm  Opera;  The  Sunken  Bell  at  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus  with  Stern's  hill  from  Penthesilea;  Reinhardt 
effects  in  Maria  Stuart  in  Frankfort;  good  old  Russian  paint- 
ing in  faked  perspective  in  Florian  Geyer  in  Munich;  a  wed- 
ding of  Heinrich  Leffler  and  Maxfield  Parrish  at  Dresden  in 
the  Verdi  opera  which  the  Germans  so  cheerfully  translate  as 

55 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Der  Troubadour;  the  style,  if  you  can  call  it  that,  of  the  Wash- 
ington Square  Players  in  Towards  Damascus  in  Frankfort. 
Everywhere  traces  of  Reinhardt  and  Craig  and  Roller. 

Roller,  alone  of  the  artists  who  were  new  fifteen  years  ago, 
is  still  busy  in  the  theater.  The  mood  he  arouses  is  mixed.  It 
is  thoroughly  annoying  to  find  him  so  unable  to  grasp  the  prolv 
lem  of  setting  in  the  remarkable  new  theater  in  the  Redout- 
ensaal  in  Vienna,  unable  to  see  that  the  Gobelins  and  the 
crystal,  the  golden  moldings  and  the  rich  baroque  ornament  of 
that  marvelous  room  which  is  both  stage  and  auditorium,  must 
set  the  style  and  color  of  the  screens  and  formal  set  pieces 
of  the  stage.  It  is  a  little  sad  to  see  Roller  trying  in  Kain  at 
the  Burgtheater  to  adopt  the  steps  and  black  curtains  and 
the  one  or  two  plastics  of  the  newer  and  younger  men.  When 
he  is  decking  out  some  war-horse  like  Die  Meistersinger  in  the 
good  old  style  of  the  revolutionists  of  1910,  you  have  to  for- 
give him  much,  even  while  you  wonder  at  the  limitations  of 
so  many  of  the  stage  designers  outside  Russia.  Take  the  first 
scene,  for  example.  Dramatically  the  thing  is  right  in  pro- 
portion and  arrangement.  It  is  an  interesting  composition  of 
wall  spaces  and  doors,  which  becomes  all  the  more  interesting 
when  the  director  has  arranged  the  many  costumed  characters 
in  waves  that  ripple  along  the  shore  of  the  picture  and  roll  up 
here  and  there  about  some  promontory  of  the  design.  But 
when  you  look  away  from  composition  to  color,  you  see  a  lack. 

56 


A  setting  by  Alfred  Roller  for  the  first  act  of 
Die  Meister singer  at  the  State  Opera  in  Vienna. 
An  example  of  the  purely  decorative  setting  at  its 
best. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

It  is  not  the  difficulty  of  bad  color,  which  besets  most  of  the 
Germans;  Roller  and  Stern  generally  escape  that.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  is  that  there  simply  isn't  any  color — in  spite  of 
a  furnace  of  dulled  orange  smoldering  on  the  walls,  and  some 
gray-greens  damping  it  down  for  contrast.  This  is  not  color 
in  the  sense  that  the  Russians  know  it.  Roller  does  not  think 
in  color  as  does  Nicolas  Roerich.  What  Westerner  does — or 
ever  has?  Roller  thinks  in  line  and  mass  and  proportion. 
Then  he  goes  to  his  paint-box,  and  selects  two  nicely  contrasting 
tones,  more  or  less  appropriate  to  a  large  medieval  building. 
He  never  bothers  his  head  over  the  dramatic  problem  of 
whether  they  mean  anything  in  relation  to  the  action,  or  the 
artistic  problem  of  whether  he  has  made  one  of  those  subtle 
arrangements  of  many  curiously  harmonizing  colors,  which,  in 
the  alchemy  of  the  eye,  take  on  a  psychic  significance. 

Such  laggard  things — the  relics  of  Craig-ideas  and  the 
work  of  various  of  the  elder  directors  and  artists — play  a 
more  or  less  normal  part  in  the  life  of  the  German  stage.  They 
would  find  a  parallel  in  any  age.  They  know  their  place  and 
keep  to  it.  Something  that  is  only  just  beginning  to  learn 
its  proper  and  subordinate  part  in  the  advance  of  the  theater 
is  the  far-famed  stage  machinery  of  Germany. 

It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  the  Germans 
should  turn  their  stage  into  a  machine  shop.  When  they  build 
one  of  their  great  five-story  office  buildings  they  begin  by 

57 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

laying  a  railroad  along  two  sides  on  the  street  level  and  another 
up  in  the  air  above  it,  and  putting  in  a  traveling  elevator, 
dump-cart,  and  crane  that  runs  along  on  the  tracks  j  after  they 
have  this  gigantic  apparatus  in  order,  building  the  building 
is  mere  child^s  play.  Der  verrilckte  Krieg  was  all  that  pre- 
vented the  development  of  a  most  ingenious  mechanism  for 
erecting  the  erector  that  builds  the  building. 

The  German  stage  machine  is  a  Frankenstein  stage-hand. 
It  is  intended  to  do  the  work  of  scene  shifting  at  great  econ- 
omy of  effort  and  time.  Actually  the  German  theaters  seem 
to  employ  more  stage  hands  than  the  American  theaters,  and 
the  waits  are  no  shorter  on  the  whole  than  those  we  are  able 
to  manage  if  we  want  to. 

There  are  two  main  divisions  to  the  species.  Lewis  Car- 
roll, listing  the  different  varieties  of  Snarks,  supplied  a  formula. 
There  are  those,  it  is  said,  that  are  round  and  revolve,  and 
those  that  have  rollers  and  slide.  The  revolving  stage — made 
famous  by  the  cohorts  of  Reinhardt — and  the  sliding  stage — 
which  includes  a  sinking  variety. 

The  revolving  stage  has  its  furious  adherents.  They  include 
Reinhardt,  Stern,  who  utilized  its  shortcomings  quite  as  mar- 
velously  as  its  good  points  in  his  productions  for  Reinhardt, 
and  the  host  of  Reinhardt  disciples.  It  came  from  Japan  in 
1896  through  Lautenschlager  of  Munich.  It  is  a  great  circle 
cut  out  of  the  stage  floor  and  mounted  on  wheels  so  that  it  may 

58 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

be  freely  turned  by  hand  or  power.  The  circle  is  from  forty 
to  sixty  feet  across,  and  usually  occupies  the  greater  part 
of  the  stage  space.  On  it  the  different  settings  are  placed  back 
to  back,  anywhere  from  two  to  ten  fitting  snugly  together. 
One  after  another  of  these  settings  is  presented  in  the  opening 
of  the  proscenium  as  the  stage  revolves.  It  retains  its  reputa- 
tion because  it  is  the  simplest  and  handiest  scene-shifting 
machine  to  use  with  the  great  solid  plaster  dome  which  Rein- 
hardt  and  so  many  other  directors  found  essential  as  a  substi- 
tute for  the  flapping  and  wrinkling  canvas  sky. 

The  sliding  stage  pure  and  simple  is  just  a  couple  of  low 
platforms  the  size  of  that  part  of  the  stage  usually  acted  on. 
These  carry  the  settings  and  slide  out  sideways  into  the  wings. 
While  one  platform  is  in  front  of  the  proscenium  with  the 
actors  giving  the  play  in  its  setting,  the  other  is  being  reset  at 
the  right  or  the  left.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  these  platforms  can- 
not slide  past  either  end  of  the  plaster  dome  if  it  is  far  enough 
down  front  to  be  of  any  use.  The  Deutsches  Opernhaus  in 
Charlottenburg,  Berlin,  gets  around  this  by  having  the  whole 
gigantic  dome  slide,  too;  hung  from  tracks  and  carrying  its 
lights  with  it,  the  dome  is  pushed  back  into  the  depths  of  the 
stage  when  the  platforms  at  the  front  have  to  slide.  The 
amusing  feature  is  that  the  present  director  of  the  theater  has 
so  little  notion  of  what  it  is  all  for  that  in  Don  Giovanni  he 
makes  a  number  of  changes  by  rigging  his  flats  and  drops  on 

59 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

lines,  as  we  might  do,  and  hoisting  them  into  the  flies  in  full 
view  of  the  audience  on  what  is  by  a  polite  fiction  called  a 
dark  stage. 

All  this  whirling  of  palaces  and  scuttling  of  skies  is  child's 
play  beside  the  sinking  stage.  As  developed  by  Adolf  Linne- 
bach,  technical  director  of  the  State  Schauspielhaus  in  Dres- 
den, it  almost  defies  understanding  or  description.  The 
simplest  variety  is  to  be  found  across  the  National  Gallery  and 
the  Theaterplatz  under  the  guiding  and  inventive  hand  of 
Max  Hasait  of  the  State  Opera  House,  Linnebach's  great 
mechanical  rival.  The  stage  of  the  Opera  is  divided  into  seven 
sections  from  the  proscenium  opening  to  the  spot  a  hundred 
feet  back  where  the  Hinterbuhne  or  auxiliary  rear-stage  be- 
gins. These  seven  sections  can  rise  some  feet  above  the  stage 
level  or  sink  into  the  basement.  While  the  front  sections  are 
in  the  basement,  carrying  a  setting  that  has  already  been  used, 
the  rear  sections,  with  another  setting  on  them,  can,  by  a 
complicated  arrangement,  be  rolled  down  on  tracks  to  take  the 
place  of  the  front  sections  in  the  proscenium  opening.  While 
the  front  sections  are  in  the  basement  the  setting  upon  them 
is  changed;  the  same  thing  happens  to  the  rear  sections  when 
they  are  rolled  back  again.  The  stage  of  the  Schauspielhaus 
is  far  more  complicated.  It  is  divided  in  only  three  sections, 
but  when  the  two  forward  sections  are  in  the  basement,  sliding 
stages  of  the  ordinary  sort,  which  rest  upon  them,  can  be  slid 

60 


Dcr  Schat-zgrabcr:  the  cottage  of  the  epilogue  in 
Schrecker's  opera.  An  extreme  conventionaliza- 
tion of  the  old  scenic  materials.  The  artist,  Emil 
Pirchan,  has  indicated  a  cottage  by  the  shape  of 
the  opening  in  the  flat  drop.  Here,  design  re- 
places machinery  in  securing  a  quick  change  of 
scene. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

out  to  the  sides  for  changes  of  scene.  On  these  sliding  stages 
small  "wagon  stages''  or  mechanical  stage  hands  operate,  carry- 
ing large  pieces  such  as  stairs  and  mantels  into  place.  Under 
the  orchestra  pit  at  the  front  is  another  contrivance,  like  a 
small  stage  on  stilts,  which  can  be  trundled  onto  the  first  sink- 
ing stage  straddling  the  setting.  Thus  two  stages  are  super- 
imposed, and  a  sort  of  elevator  stage  produced,  such  as  Steele 
MacKaye  once  invented.  Hasait  is  nursing  a  scheme  for 
rearranging  his  sinking  and  sliding  stages  so  that  the  seven 
stages  may  run  forward,  sink  to  the  basement,  slide  back,  rise, 
and  run  forward  again  in  rapid  succession  like  an  endless  chain. 
The  prospect  is  distinctly  startling.  Opponents  of  the  new 
stagecraft  have  often  claimed  that  the  scenery  ignores  the 
actor.  With  the  sliding  and  sinking  stage  a  little  further 
advanced,  you  can  imagine  the  scenery  taking  a  really  furious 
interest  in  the  actor,  pursuing  him  from  floor  to  basement 
and  back  again.  You  can  imagine  some  new  director  work- 
ing out  a  drama  in  which  a  cathedral  chases  an  apostate  priest 
about  the  stage,  or  a  phallic  column  pursues  the  heroine  into 
the  darkness  of  the  cellar  only  to  lose  her  as  she  rises  trium- 
phantly on  the  last  of  the  seven  mystic  stages  guided  and 
blessed  by  that  unique  functionary  of  the  German  theater, 
the  Obermaschineninspektor. 

There  are  peculiar  disadvantages  to  these  expensive  mechan- 
isms.   The  revolving  stage  simply  can't  handle  certain  scenes 

61 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Avithout  ceasing  to  be  a  revolving  stage.  It  is  impossible  to 
use  the  entire  width  or  depth  of  the  stage  for  an  exterior  with- 
out shoving  all  the  other  scenes  off  the  "revolver/'  and  giving 
up  its  use.  All  exterior  scenes  on  the  revolving  stage  have 
to  go  up  over  the  rooms  set  at  the  back.  The  western  prairies 
and  the  North  German  sea  coast  are  equally  unpopular  with 
the  friends  of  the  revolving  stage.  The  exceptionally  fine 
production  of  Masse-Mensch — ^with  its  various  great  steps 
the  whole  width  and  half  the  height  of  the  stage,  alternating 
with  flat  open  scenes — received  almost  no  assistance  from  the 
"revolver'^  at  the  Volksbuhne  in  Berlin.  The  technical  direc- 
tor, putting  this  stage  through  its  paces  and  exhibiting  such 
amusing  tricks  as  its  ability  to  rise  or  sink  some  six  feet  at  either 
end,  thus  producing  a  slanting  floor,  confessed  that  he  much 
preferred  some  other  type  of  stage. 

The  sliding  and  sinking  stage  has  fewer  disadvantages;  but 
it  is  an  elaborate,  expensive,  and  cumbersome  machine  to  do 
the  work  that  designers  and  stage  hands  might  quite  as  well 
accomplish.  On  the  matter  of  expense,  it  is  disquieting  to 
hear  at  a  scene-rehearsal  of  Das  Rheingold  that  one  hundred 
and  fifty  men,  including  electricians,  are  busy  with  this  labor- 
saving  device.  It  is  still  more  disturbing  to  the  machine- 
worshiper  to  time  the  intermissions  in  German  theaters,  and 
to  find  that  waits  of  from  two  to  five  minutes  are  quite  as  f re- 

62 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

quent  as  in  America.  The  explanation,  of  course,  is  the  cos- 
tumes. "The  stage  was  all  set  in  half  a  minute,  but  we  had 
to  wait  for  the  tenor  to  get  into  his  blue  tights."  It  looks  very 
much  as  if  the  Maschineninspektoren  should  have  introduced 
sliding  wardrobes  or  adapted  the  harnessing  devices  of  fire- 
houses  before  they  put  thousands  of  dollars  into  sliding  stages. 

The  German  technical  men  are  beginning  to  chafe  at  the 
limitations  of  the  machines,  to  be  content  to  push  them  into 
second  place.  If  you  talk  to  Linnebach,  at  Dresden,  once 
high  priest  of  the  sliding  stage,  you  will  note  with  some  sur- 
prise that  the  word  einfach  has  a  Carolinian  way  of  getting 
into  the  conversation.  Things  must  be  simpler.  No  big  solid 
sets;  instead,  some  curtains  and  lights  and  a  dome  on  which 
to  project  painted  designs.  The  word  F odium  also  crops  out. 
Like  almost  all  forward-looking  artists  and  directors  in  Ger- 
many, Linnebach  wants  to  put  the  actor  on  a  sort  of  tribune 
thrust  out  into  the  audience.  He  wants  to  give  him  back  the 
vital  heritage  of  the  Greek  and  the  medieval  stages.  Linne- 
bach is  content  mechanically  with  the  devices  of  the  elec- 
trician; when  he  mounted  Hasenclever's  expressionist  drama, 
JenseitSy  he  made  the  setting  out  of  light  and  shadow,  a  few 
chairs  and  tables,  only  one  or  two  set  pieces,  and  some  projected 
backgrounds. 

Machinery  like  the  sinking  stage  has  advantages  apart  from 

63 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

its  ability  to  change  heavy  realistic  sets.  It  is  difficult  to  see 
how  the  opening  scene  of  Shaw's  Pygmaliony  looking  out  to 
the  street  from  under  the  portico  of  Covent  Garden,  could  be 
better  created  or  more  quickly  shifted  than  in  Linnebach's 
production.  Certainly  without  the  ability  to  sink  with  ease 
the  rear  part  of  the  stage  three  or  four  feet,  he  could  not  have 
given  us  the  natural  effect  of  the  street  level  below  the  eyes 
of  the  audience  and  the  actors.  The  great  virtue  of  a  mechani- 
cal stage  of  this  kind  is  not  to  shift  scenery,  so  much  as  to  supply 
economically  and  quickly  different  levels  for  the  actors  to 
play  upon.  The  use  of  levels  is  one  of  the  important  advances 
of  the  Continental  theater  since  the  war,  and  the  sinking  stage 
helps  greatly  with  this.  With  a  few  inner  prosceniums  and 
simple  backgrounds,  it  can  supply,  as  it  were,  an  infinite  variety 
of  formal  stages  such  as  the  Continental  theater  seems  slowly 
to  be  tending  toward. 

Barring  the  realistic  and  the  formal,  there  is  a  middle 
ground  in  which  the  machine  is  of  little  value  compared  with 
the  designer.  In  Linnebach's  theater — though  not  from  his 
designs — a  Hindu  romance,  Vasantasena^  was  mounted  frankly 
and  freshly  against  flat  settings  in  the  style  of  Indian  minia- 
tures. This  was  accomplished,  without  the  aid  of  stage 
machinery,  by  the  use  of  a  permanent  setting  or  portal  of 
Indian  design,  with  steps  and  a  platform,  on  which,  framed 
within  an  inner  proscenium,  drops  and  profiles  were  changed 

64 


Das  Rheingold:  Alberich's  Cave.  A  setting  by 
Linnebach  and  Pasetti  at  the  National  Theater  in 
Munich.  An  atmospheric  scene  produced  by  lights 
playing  across  a  frankly  painted  background  which 
emphasizes  the  rocky  converging  lines  of  a  cavern. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

much  as  we  would  change  them.  The  artist,  Otto  Hettner, 
supplied  a  style,  as  well  as  a  formal  stage,  which  made  the 
machine  taboo.  Working  with  Pasetti  at  the  National  Thea- 
ter in  Munich,  Linnebach  accomplished  the  changes  of  Dal 
Rheingold  quite  as  easily.  In  an  older  production  at  Dresden, 
under  Hasait,  the  fields  of  the  gods  opposite  Valhalla  were 
made  of  bulky  platforms  and  plastic  rocks,  which  went  rolling 
back  behind  the  cyclorama  while  up  from  the  basement  came 
in  one  piece  the  cave  of  the  Nibelungen  with  its  nooks  and 
corners,  its  overhanging  ceiling,  and  its  whole  equipment  of 
plastic  canvas  rocks,  which  might  have  come  out  of  some 
cavern  on  a  scenic  railway.  In  Munich  the  simpler  levels  of 
the  fields  in  the  second  scene  served  in  the  cave  scene  also. 
They  were  lost  in  the  shadows,  along  with  the  side  walls, 
which  were  hardly  more  than  masking  curtains.  The  rocky 
cave  was  suggested  wholly  by  the  backdrop.  This  was  painted 
in  broken,  converging  lines  of  rock  formations.  Because  of 
the  magic  of  light,  it  did  not  seem  like  some  conventional  old 
backdrop. 

The  spirit  of  the  theater  as  it  has  developed  since  the  war 
seems  to  call  upon  the  designer  and  regisseur  instead  of  the 
mechanician.  When  artists  were  building  heavy  and  cumber- 
some settings,  elaborate  in  physical  proportions  if  not  in  de- 
sign, sliding  and  revolving  stages  were  unquestionably  neces- 
sary, though  we  may  well  ask  how  much  the  presence  of  the 

65 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

mechanisms  tempted  the  artists  into  such  excess.  To-day, 
however,  the  setting  is  being  stylized,  the  stage  itself  made 
formal.  Machinery  becomes  irrelevant.  Copeau  does  not 
need  it  even  for  the  realistic  Les  Freres  Karamazov;  the  Re- 
doutensaal  is  almost  too  innocent  to  suspect  its  existence. 
Regisseurs  of  the  new  sort  want  something  more  theatrical 
than  a  turntable  that  any  round-house  might  boast. 

The  playwright  works  with  the  regisseur  and  the  artist  to 
this  same  end.  While  Dorothy  Richardson,  Waldo  Frank, 
and  James  Joyce  are  busy  taking  the  machinery  out  of  the 
novel,  the  playwrights  are  making  machinery  unnecessary  for 
drama.  They  drop  "atmosphere,"  and  take  up  the  soul.  They 
seek  the  subjective  instead  of  the  physical.  They  want  to 
thrill  us  with  the  mysteries  and  clarities  of  the  unconscious, 
instead  of  cozening  us  with  photographic  detail  or  romantic 
color.  For  all  this  they  need  imagination  in  setting,  !not 
actuality.  Form  carries  the  spirit  up  and  out.  Indications 
speak  to  it  louder  than  actualities.  Design,  which  is  of  the 
spirit,  drives  out  mechanism,  which  is  of  the  brain. 

The  day  of  the  machine  is  over  in  the  theater,  the  day  of 
its  domination  at  any  rate.  For  a  time  it  looked  as  though 
the  name  of  the  old  theater  in  the  Tuileries  would  have  to 
be  painted  over  every  stage  door  in  Germany — La  Salle  des 
Machines.  Now  the  stage  machine  is  sinking  into  its  proper 
place — the  cellar.    A  new  device  is  lording  it  in  the  theater, 

66 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  MACHINES 

but  it  cannot  be  called  a  machine.  The  electric  light  is  not 
a  mechanical  thing.  It  is  miraculously  animated  by  some- 
thing very  like  the  Life  Force,  and  night  by  night  its  living 
rays  are  directed  to  new  and  unforeseen  ends. 


67 


CHAPTER  VI 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

IN  the  'eighties  and  the  'nineties,  when  electricity  came 
into  the  theater  to  take  the  place  of  gas,  light  was  only 
illumination.  By  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury it  had  become  atmosphere.  To-day  it  is  taking  the  place 
of  setting  in  many  Continental  theaters.  To-morrow  it  may 
be  part  of  drama  itself. 

In  1893  a  Swiss  doctor  named  Adolphe  Appia  published  a 
little  book  in  French  on  the  production  of  Wagner's  music- 
dramas;  six  years  later  he  elaborated  his  ideas  in  a  volume 
published  in  a  German  translation  as  Die  Musik  und  die  In- 
scenierungy  the  first  and  perhaps  the  greatest  book  of  theory 
on  the  new  art  of  the  theater.  Among  other  things,  he  dis- 
cussed lighting  at  great  length.  He  made  a  very  important 
observation.  He  noted  that  the  lighting  of  the  stage  of  his 
day  was  hardly  more  than  mere  illumination — something  to 
make  all  objects  equally  bright  and  visible.  It  was  quite  as 
necessary,  he  believed,  to  make  certain  objects  more  visible 
than  others,  and  to  make  them  more  living,  more  dramatic. 
At  the  time  the  lighting  apparatus  of  the  theater  was  crude,  be- 

68 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

cause  the  electric  light  was  in  its  infancy.  There  were  only 
small  electric  bulbs,  arranged  in  rows  for  footlights  below  and 
borderlights  overhead,  to  supply  flat  illumination,  and  arc 
lights,  which  were  movable  and  could  be  made  to  "spot"  out 
figures  more  brilliantly.  Appia  recognized  in  these  last  the 
means  for  making  the  figure  of  the  actor  brilliant  and  dynamic. 
With  his  eye  on  these  spotlights  he  made  an  unheard-of  de- 
mand. He  asked  for  shadows.  He  said  that  light  and  shade 
gave  three  dimensions  to  the  player  and  three  dimensions  to 
the  setting  (provided,  as  he  suggested,  the  setting  be  made 
plastic  instead  of  flat).  By  means  of  light  he  wanted  to  link 
the  living  actor  and  the  dead  setting.  He  went  further  than 
using  shadows  and  animating  the  background.  He  proposed 
that  the  play  of  light  throughout  an  act  should  express  the 
mood  and  action.  He  wanted  it  to  change  with  the  develop- 
ment of  the  play.  He  made  elaborate  analyses  of  the  Wagner 
music-dramas  to  show  how  the  light  could  play  a  part — an 
active  part — in  the  setting  and  the  action. 

During  the  next  decade,  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, an  Italian  named  Fortuny  began  the  first  practical  work 
of  progress  in  stage  lighting.  Not  very  permanent  work,  per- 
haps, but  certainly  valuable  because  it  struck  out  in  new 
directions.  His  devices  have  all  but  disappeared  from  the 
German  theater  5  but  only  because  they  have  been  replaced 
by  improvements  along  the  lines  he  indicate3.   Fortuny  tried 

69 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 
to  improve  the  quality  of  the  light  by  using  indirect  illumina- 
tion. He  threw  light  from  powerful  arcs  against  colored 
bands  of  silk,  which  reflected  it  onto  the  stage.  This  had 
two  advantages.  The  light  was  diffused  and  broken  up.  The 
color  could  be  controlled  at  a  distance  by  cords  that  moved 
the  various  silk  bands  past  the  light.  Fortuny  also  tried  to 
improve  the  surface  on  which  the  light  fell.  He  devised  a 
domed  silk  sky  or  Kuppelhorizont^  into  which  the  greater  part 
of  his  diffused  light  was  thrown,  to  be  diffused  still  further. 
Incidentally  he  hoped  to  achieve  a  better  sky-effect.  Disad- 
vantages hampered  both  his  devices.  Indirect  lighting  re- 
quired far  more  current  than  direct  and  created  a  great  deal  of 
heat.  The  dome  was  produced  by  exhausting  air  from  between 
two  curved  surfaces  of  silk,  the  outer  one  fastened  to  a  folding 
frame  of  steel;  creases  and  joints  showed  in  the  silk  and  air 
was  likely  to  leak  in  and  collapse  the  sky. 

In  the  course  of  another  ten  years  engineering  ingenuity  sup- 
plied substitutes  for  both  these  elements  of  the  Fortuny  System. 
Most  important  was  the  discovery  of  how  to  manufacture  in- 
candescent bulbs  almost  as  powerful  as  arc  lights.  Such  bulbs, 
equipped  with  frosted  glass  and  glass  mediums  or  color  screens, 
could  not  only  supply  light  sufficiently  diffused  in  tone  and 
under  easy  control,  but  they  also  produced  the  shadows,  as 
well  as  the  light,  which  Appia  wanted.  The  sky-dome  became 
literally  z  fixture  in  the  German  theater  when  some  one  de- 

70 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

cided  to  make  it  out  of  plaster  instead  of  silk.  To-day  the 
high-powered  bulb  and  the  plaster  sky  are  everywhere  in  the 
German  theater.  Schwabe  in  Berlin  and  Phillips  in  Holland 
have  succeeded  in  making  bulbs  of  the  enormous  power  of 
3,000  watts  or  6^000  candlepower,  bulbs  about  three  times  as 
strong  as  any  incandescent  lights  used  in  America  in  1922. 
The  dome,  or  some  variety  of  it,  is  found  in  practically  every 
German  theater.  Linnebach  estimates  that  there  are  twenty 
true  Kuppelhorizonts^  cupping  the  whole  stage  with  a  curving 
domcj  ten  permanent  Rundhorizonts^  plaster  cycloramas  curv- 
ing like  a  great  semi-circular  wall  around  the  stage  5  and  thirty 
canvas  cycloramas  which  are  quite  as  large  as  the  Rundhori- 
zonty  and  some  of  which  are  so  hung  as  to  make  a  most  conven- 
ient and  efficient  substitute  for  either  variety  of  plaster  sky. 

The  most  interesting  and  significant  departures  in  the  use 
of  light  on  the  Continental  stage  have  to  do  with  this  substitute 
for  the  old  backdrop.  It  began  as  an  imitation  of  the  sky,  an 
attempt  to  put  one  more  piece  of  Realism  into  the  theater.  It 
has  got  to  the  point  now  where  its  really  interesting  and  impor- 
tant uses  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  realistic  fake- 
heavens.  It  is  being  employed  as  a  formal  element  in  a  stage 
design,  or  else  as  a  surface  on  which  to  paint  scenery  with  light. 

Perhaps  it  was  economy,  perhaps  a  flash  of  genius,  but  it 
occurred  to  the  Germans  that  there  was  no  particular  necessity 
of  lighting  the  dome  or  cyclorama.    In  these  huge  stages  it 

71 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

stands  at  least  sixty  or  seventy  feet  back  of  the  footlights.  It 
is  possible,  therefore,  to  make  it  a  dim  emptiness  by  merely 
turning  off  the  lights  that  ordinarily  shine  upon  it,  or  to  give 
it  some  vague  neutral  quality  from  the  light  upon  the  stage 
which  is  reflected  onto  the  Horizont.  In  Othello  at  the  State 
Schauspielhaus  in  Berlin,  Jessner  uses  his  cyclorama,  an  ordi- 
nary canvas  one,  as  a  formal  background  bounding  the  space 
in  which  his  strictly  conventionalized  indications  of  settings 
are  placed.  Thus  it  is  in  some  scenes  a  pale  neutral  wall,  in 
some  a  curious  violet  emptiness,  in  others  a  faintly  salmon 
background,  in  still  another  a  yellow  light  against  which  fig- 
ures move  in  tiny  silhouettes.  At  the  Volksbuhne  in  Masse- 
Mensch  the  dome  becomes  a  misty  void  in  one  of  the  dream- 
scenes  ;  and  then  upon  this  void  move  vast,  mysterious  shadows 
in  circling  procession. 

Shadows  on  the  dome  carry  us  to  a  final  development  of 
lighting  in  Germany — the  "projection''  of  scenery,  the  sub- 
stitution of  light  for  paint  as  a  means  of  expression.  Many 
minds  have  worked  and  are  working  on  devices  to  be  used  for 
this  purpose,  but  the  most  important  mechanisms  find  their 
home  in  Dresden  at  the  theaters  of  Linnebach  and  of  Hasait. 

As  might  be  expected,  Linnebach's  is  the  simpler.  He  has 
a  dome  in  his  theater,  the  State  Schauspielhaus,  and  upon  this 
dome  or  through  varnished  silk  from  the  back,  he  throws,  by 
means  of  a  very  simple  lantern  containing  an  arc  light  but  no 

72 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

lensesj  the  designs  painted  on  glass.  This  lantern  and  the  trans- 
parent method  of  projection  were  used  in  America  with  much 
success  by  Lee  Simonson  when  the  New  York  Theater  Guild 
mounted  Shaw's  Back  to  Methuselah  in  the  spring  of  1922. 
Linnebach  has  made  the  mountains  of  Wilhelm  Tell  with  pro- 
jection and  the  settings  of  Grabbers  Kaiser  Heinrich  VI y  and 
of  the  expressionist  dramas  Das  Bist  Du,  GaSy  and  Jenseits, 

Hasait's  simplest  method  of  projection  brings  you  up  sharp 
against  the  true  origins  of  the  thing,  and  they  are  almost  as 
old  as  drama.  The  puppeteers  of  old  Java  had  shadow-marion- 
ettes centuries  before  the  technical  director  of  the  Dresden 
State  Opera  made  shadow-settings.  For  Weber's  Oberon  and 
for  Mozart's  Zauberfldtey  Hasait  provides  a  plastic  arrange- 
ment of  inner  proscenium  and  steps,  with  a  translucent  cur- 
tain at  the  back.  From  one  side  of  the  curtain  he  projects  a 
design  in  shadows  by  means  of  a  frame  hardly  two  feet  wide 
across  which  are  fastened  various  thicknesses  of  gauze.  The 
light  that  comes  through  the  clearer  portions  of  the  gauze  is 
one  color,  while  from  a  light  on  the  other  side  of  the  trans- 
lucent curtain  he  stains  the  shadows  with  a  second  color.  The 
hue  of  both  these  lights  can  be  changed  quickly  or  slowly  as 
desired,  producing  harmonies  and  contrasts  of  color. 

The  other  devices  used  by  Hasait  for  projection  are  em- 
bodied in  a  scheme  of  stage  equipment  called  the  Ars  System 
by  the  Swedish  company  that  controls  the  patents  for  its  ex- 

73 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ploitation  abroad.  The  basis  of  the  system  is  a  canvas  cyclo- 
rama.  This  cyclorama  runs  on  a  semi-circular  track  hung 
from  the  gridiron  high  above  the  stage.  At  one  end  of  the 
track  is  a  great  roller  upon  which  the  cyclorama  may  be  wound 
up,  to  get  it  out  of  the  way  during  an  elaborate  change  of 
scene.  It  takes  only  half  a  minute  for  the  cyclorama  to  be 
run  out  on  the  track  ready  for  use.  The  track  itself  may  be 
swung  downward  from  its  two  front  corners  to  permit  particu- 
larly large  drops  to  be  hoisted  or  lowered  j  but  it  is  wide  enough 
and  deep  enough  not  to  interfere  with  the  ordinary  use  of  the 
gridiron.  The  cyclorama  is  made  of  common  light  canvas, 
but  it  is  so  cut  and  joined,  and  hung  on  a  slight  slant  that  it 
takes  up  of  itself  the  bulges  and  wrinkles  ordinarily  produced 
in  our  cycloramas  by  a  change  in  weather.  The  invention  of 
this  cyclorama  is  in  dispute  between  those  ancient  but  cour- 
teous rivals,  Hasait  and  Linnebach. 

With  this  cyclorama  goes  an  elaborate  system  of  lighting 
manufactured  by  Schwabe.  There  are  floor  lamps,  contained 
in  wheeled  chariots,  to  illuminate  the  bottom  of  the  cyclo- 
rama. Above  the  proscenium  opening  hangs  a  battery  of  dif- 
ferent colored  lights — seventy-two  in  the  Stockholm  State 
Opera — ^which  play  directly  upon  the  cyclorama,  and  three 
high-powered  bulbs  to  light  the  stage  floor.  Besides  these,  the 
Ars  System,  as  installed  at  Stockholm,  includes  three  special 
projection  devices  also  hung  above  the  proscenium,  all  the  ad- 

74 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

justments  of  which  are  controlled  electro-magnetically  from 
the  switchboard.  One  of  these  is  the  large  cloud-machine, 
an  arrangement  of  two  tiers  of  eight  lamps  each,  raying  out 
from  a  common  axis.  These  tiers  can  move  at  different  speeds 
and  in  different  directions,  while  each  lamp  can  be  turned  up 
and  down  and  sideways  at  will.  These  projectors  each  house 
a  6,000  candle-power  bulb  and  hold  a  photograph  or  drawing 
of  a  cloud.  The  complex  motion  of  these  static  clouds  when 
projected  on  the  cyclorama  gives  an  effect  of  every-varying 
cloud  formations.  Almost  absolute  Realism  can  thus  be 
obtained.  A  second  and  smaller  and  less  flexible  cloud- 
machine  with  a  single  central  lamp  and  reflecting  mirrors  is, 
for  some  reason,  included  in  the  equipment. 

Besides  these  cloud-machines  there  is  a  battery  of  three 
high-powered  bulbs  and  lenses,  by  means  of  which  designs 
painted  on  glass  slides  may  be  projected  after  the  fashion  of 
a  magic  lantern  upon  the  cyclorama  or  any  object  on  the  stage. 
This  is  the  really  important  feature  of  the  Ars  System  from 
an  artistic  standpoint.  Its  possibilities  are  extraordinary. 
Harald  Andre,  chief  regisseur  of  the  Stockholm  Opera,  has 
experimented  little  as  yet  with  this  device,  utilizing  it  only 
in  one  ballet.  But  he  has  speculated  much  on  the  opportuni- 
ties that  it  presents  for  uniting  a  large  group  of  theaters,  simi- 
larly equipped,  in  the  exchange  of  scenic  designs  for  the 
productions  in  their  repertory.     Andre  believes  that  the 

75 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

economy  of  projected  scenery  is  important  artistically,  as  well 
as  financially,  because  it  will  permit  of  experiment  with  many 
new  works  at  slight  expense,  and  of  the  rapid  reproduction  of 
the  successful  pieces  in  many  cities  at  once. 

From  the  absolute,  artistic  viewpoint  of  the  effect  obtained, 
projection  is  most  satisfactory,  though  as  yet  almost  undevel- 
oped. Americans  who  saw  the  translucent  projections  of  Sim- 
onson's  designs  in  Back  to  Methuselah  realized  how  little  these 
drops  had  the  visual  disadvantages  of  the  painted  variety.  They 
enjoyed  a  certain  incorporeal  quality.  The  landscapes  were 
not  defined  like  huge  oil  paintings  in  false  perspective.  They 
went  into  some  new  category  which,  for  the  moment,  defeated 
our  analysis.  Such  projections  may  in  time  take  on  the  shallow 
pretense  of  painted  backdrops,  though  I  am  inclined  to 
doubt  it. 

In  the  case  of  the  Valhalla  of  Das  Rheingoldy  as  projected 
in  Linnebach's  production  at  the  National  Theater  in  Munich, 
the  ethereal  quality  of  this  kind  of  "painting"  again  stands  out. 
The  scene  is  most  successful  when  the  lighting  is  dimmest. 
In  the  central  portions  of  the  second  and  fourth  scenes,  when 
the  stage  is  fully  lighted,  the  image  of  Valhalla  holds  its  own 
against  the  illumination  of  the  foreground,  but  the  foreground 
itself  fails  dismally  to  match  the  beauty  of  the  gods'  castle. 
When  the  plastic  foreground  is  not  to  be  seen,  Valhalla  hangs 
in  the  heavens  like  one  of  the  shapes  of  Wilfred's  Color  Organ, 

76 


Das  Rheingold:  Valhalla.  A  setting  by  Linnebach 
and  Pasetti.  The  gods  are  grouped  in  deep  shadow 
on  a  conventionalized  arrangement  of  rocky  levels 
in  the  foreground.  The  castle  becomes  slowly 
visible  in  the  sky  beyond,  built  of  beams  of  light, 
hanging  in  the  air  like  a  great  cumulus  cloud.  At 
the  National  Theater,  Munich. 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

a  thing  that  seems  to  have  three  dimensions.  When  the  lights 
upon  the  stage  floor  bring  out  the  rocks  of  the  foreground,  Val- 
halla loses  the  reality  of  three  dimensions.  It  still  seems  truer, 
as  well  as  more  beautiful,  than  the  rocks  in  front.  In  fact  it 
shows  up  pitilessly  the  trivial  canvas  life  of  those  boulders. 
But  it  loses  the  impression  of  depth,  which  it  had  at  first  cre- 
ated.  This  was  doubtless  a  false  impression,  a  foolish  illusion. 

The  projected  setting  is  certainly  in  another  dimension  spir- 
itually from  those  two  ordinarily  employed  in  old-fashioned 
scene  painting.  It  is  not  in  any  of  the  planes  of  stage-rocks 
or  houses.  It  does  not,  however,  war  with  the  human  figure, 
curiously  enough.  It  seems  likely  that  the  artist  or  director 
using  projected  design  must  formalize  his  foreground,  as 
Simonson  did,  or  else  hide  its  commonplace  actuality  in  shadow. 
Ordinary  stage  pretenses  cannot  stand  beside  the  spiritual  plas- 
tics produced  by  light. 

As  for  the  cloud-machine,  so  long  as  it  is  trying  merely  to 
reproduce  nature  it  is  utterly  unimportant.  Something  imag- 
inative must  be  done  with  it  before  it  can  expect  serious  con- 
sideration. In  the  productions  of  Andre  at  the  Stockholm 
Opera  there  are  at  least  two  hints  that  the  cloud-machine  can 
be  used  for  the  purposes  of  art.  One  of  these,  rather  poorly 
managed,  is  the  use  of  designed  clouds  instead  of  natural  clouds 
in  one  of  the  scenes  of  Samson  and  'Delilah,  The  other,  not 
perfectly  executed  by  any  means,  but  most  suggestive,  occurs 

77 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

in  Verdi's  Macbeth,  There  in  the  first  scene  Andre  sets  a 
wild  storm  sky  in  motion.  He  uses  negative  or  black  photo- 
graphs of  clouds  instead  of  positive  or  w^hite,  and  he  starts  them 
moving  from  on  high  and  at  the  sides,  sweeping  in  and  down 
upon  the  witches.  As  these  dark  shapes  descend  in  tumult, 
it  seems  as  though  the  black  earth  were  drinking  black  clouds, 
curious  and  evil  portent  of  the  powers  of  the  infernal. 

Movement  in  projection  has  obviously  great  possibilities  as 
part  of  the  action  of  new  drama.  In  Kaiser's  expressionist 
play  From  Morn  to  Midnight^  produced  by  the  Theater  Guild, 
Simonson  used  Linnebach's  lantern  to  make  the  tree  in  the 
snow  scene  change  into  a  skeleton,  an  effect  that  Kaiser  was 
able  to  foresee  only  as  a  shifting  of  snowflakes  upon  naked 
boughs. 

Light  itself  seems  destined  to  assume  a  larger  and  larger  part 
in  the  drama.  It  is  a  playing  force,  quite  as  much  as  the  actors. 
It  can  be  a  motivator  of  action  as  well  as  an  illuminator  of  it. 
Jessner  at  the  State  Schauspielhaus  in  Berlin  uses  it  as  an 
arbitrary  accompaniment  and  interpreter  of  action.  Lights 
flash  on  or  off  as  some  mood  changes.  They  create  shadows 
to  dramatize  a  relation  of  two  men.  They  seem  to  control  or 
to  be  controlled  by  the  action.  The  extent  to  which  a  change 
of  light  may  express  the  dramatist's  conception  is  most  inter- 
estingly suggested  in  the  scene  of  Macbeth's  death  in 
Andre's  production  of  the  opera.     It  is  an  uncommonly 

78 


LIGHT  AS  SETTING 

well  handled  scene  in  all  respects,  perhaps  the  best  example 
of  this  director's  fine  imagination.  The  fight  between 
the  armies  begins  in  a  gray  light  before  the  walls  of 
Dunsinane.  There  is  no  absurd  effort  of  supers  to  look  like 
death-crazed  warriors.  The  quality  of  pursuit  and  conflict  is 
caught  in  the  pose  of  the  bands  of  the  soldiers  as  they  run  past 
the  walls  bent  down  like  dogs  upon  a  blood-scent.  Macbeth 
and  Macduff  meet  for  a  clear  moment  of  conflict,  then  they  are 
surrounded  and  covered  by  the  troops  that  rush  to  see  their 
champions  do  battle.  At  the  moment  when  Macbeth  falls, 
the  crowd  clears  for  a  moment.  And  then  the  grayness  of 
morning  breaks  sharply  into  dawn  as  evil  goes  out  of  the  play. 
An  obvious  symbolism,  perhaps,  but  obviousness  is  not  so  great 
a  failing  in  the  theater.  The  fault  of  the  scene  is  only  in 
Andre's  over-emphasis  upon  the  light,  or  rather  his  under-em- 
phasis  upon  the  cause  of  the  light — the  death  of  Macbeth. 
At  the  moment  when  the  light  goes  on,  there  should  come  some 
supreme,  arresting  gesture,  something  to  absorb  every  atom 
of  our  attention  so  that  we  may  wonderingly  discover  the  light 
as  a  thing  caused  by  Macbeth,  not  by  an  electrician. 

Such  a  scene  suggests  wide  possibilities.  Light  as  the  com- 
pelling force  of  a  playj  light  as  a  motivator  of  action;  light 
and  setting,  not  as  a  background  to  action,  but  as  part  of  it,  as 
something  making  characters  exist  and  act;  light  as  an  almost 
physical  aura  of  human  bodies;  light,  therefore,  in  conflict. 

79 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Physical  contacts  are  not  a  necessity  of  the  theater.  Under 
Jessner,  the  murderer  of  Clarence  in  Richard  III  does  not  try 
to  seem  to  stab  him;  he  simply  plunges  the  dagger  at  him. 
That  is  enough.  In  Francesca  da  Rimini  as  Duse  sometimes 
gave  it,  I  have  heard  that  when  the  husband  killed  Paola  v^ith 
his  sword  the  space  of  the  whole  room  separated  them.  It  was 
as  if  the  sword  possessed  an  aura,  and  as  if  the  aura  slew.  In 
Masse-Mensch  the  crowd  of  revolutionaries  go  down  to  the 
mere  rattle  of  machine  guns  before  the  curtains  are  drawn  to 
show  the  soldiers. 

If  light  can  do  such  things,  even  if  it  can  do  no  more  than 
signal  the  downfall  of  evil  or  set  Valhalla  glowing  in  the  heav- 
ens, it  will  take  a  place  in  the  theater  that  no  other  product 
of  inventive  ingenuity  can  reach.  Light,  at  the  very  least,  is 
machinery  spiritualized. 


80 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  GERMAN  ACTOR 

FOUR  years  of  war  left  the  elaborate  machinery  of  the 
German  theaters  intact.  Four  years  of  the  purgatory 
called  peace  have  even  seen  a  sharp  advance  in  electrical 
equipment.  Critics  and  managers  of  the  victorious  nations 
and  of  the  neutrals  that  enjoy  a  sound  exchange  may  com- 
plain of  the  quantity  and  quality  of  theater-goers;  but  the 
vanquished  have  suffered  less.  At  forty  performances  in  Ger- 
many and  Austria  we  saw  hardly  two  rows  of  vacant  seats  all 
told  in  the  dramatic  theaters,  though  one  or  two  musical  shows 
were  no  more  than  two-thirds  full. 

The  German  theater  has  suffered,  however,  in  one  spot. 
The  unfortunate  truth  is  that  it  is  a  vital  spot — acting.  Only 
the  richness  of  trained  talent  in  its  post-war  companies  enables 
it  to  suffer  the  drain  of  the  past  years  and  still  give  perform- 
ances far  better  than  we  see  in  England  or  America. 

War  affected  the  German  actor  less  than  it  did  the  actor  in 
the  allied  countries;  Germany  kept  her  players  on  the  home 
front  fighting  disheartenment.  Peace  and  the  movies,  how- 
ever, brought  dispersal.  Companies  were  scattered,  players 
exiled. 

81 


CONTINENTALSTAGECRAFT 

The  spectacular  collapse,  of  course,  was  the  dissolution  of 
Max  Reinhardt's  famous  company  that  filled  his  two  Berlin 
theaters.  Moissi,  Bassermann,  Pallenberg,  Konstantin,  Eiben- 
schiitz,  Wegener,  Dietrich,  Arnold,  Lehman,  Eysoldt,  Bertens, 
Diegelmann,  Heims,  Jannings,  Schildkraut — not  one  of  these 
names  appears  on  the  Zettel  outside  the  old  Reinhardt  houses. 
Some  are  in  the  movies  and  some  are  stars,  but  all  are  gone. 

If  American  films  could  have  entered  Germany  in  the  face 
of  the  depreciated  mark,  Reinhardt's  theaters  might  still  be 
giving  true  repertory,  Reinhardt  himself  might  still  be  there, 
and  certainly  many  of  the  old  company  would  be  playing  to- 
gether in  Berlin.  Other  factors,  personal,  financial,  and  artis- 
tic, gradually  drew  Reinhardt  out  of  production,  but  he 
himself  declared  with  much  truth  that  repertory  was  impossible 
when  actors  had  to  give  their  days  to  the  movies,  instead  of  to 
rehearsals,  and  that  the  theater  was  impossible  for  him  without 
repertory  and  actors.  As  for  the  players  themselves,  with  the 
mark  at  a  cent  and  pomade  at  two  hundred  marks,  it  had  to  be 
either  the  movies  or  stardom. 

The  star  system  of  England  and  America,  imported  into 
Germany,  has  done  little  to  keep  even  the  popular  players  in 
Berlin.  The  audience  is  exhausted  sooner  than  in  New  York 
or  London,  and  then  tours  must  come.  Alexander  Moissi 
knocks  about  Switzerland  and  Austria.  Leopoldine  Konstan- 
tin,  the  flashing  slave  girl  of  Sumurun^  is  supposed  to  be  starring 

82 


THE  GERMAN  ACTOR 

in  Vienna,  but  you  find  her  one  night  at  Der  Blaue  Vogel^  the 
imitation  Chauve-Souris  which  one  of  Balieff's  assistants  in- 
stalled in  Berlin.  Pallenberg  goes  up  and  down  the  country 
with  Der  WauwaUy  the  German  edition  of  Grumpy, 

Even  the  younger  stars  are  wanderers.  That  fresh  exotic, 
Maria  Orska,  competes  with  the  traveling  troupe  of  the  Mos- 
cow Art  Theater  for  the  patronage  of  Stockholm.  She  plays 
in  the  cosmopolitan  German  of  a  Russian,  against  the  Swedish 
of  a  resident  company.  The  play  is  Wedekind's  Erdgeisty  first 
half  of  that  staggering  duology  of  sex  which  ends  with  Pan- 
dora?s  Box  and  Jack  the  Ripper,  and  goes  under  the  name  of 
Lulu,  In  Berlin  Mme.  Orska  is  thought  a  little  sensational. 
Her  Lulu  is  anything  but  that.  She  does  not  dwell  on  the  cor- 
poreality of  this  daughter  of  earth's  joy.  Her  Lulu  is  not  a 
human  being  made  hideous  and  fascinating  with  eternal  lures. 
She  is  a  kind  of  mask,  a  thin  mask,  a  shell  of  tinted  and  whit- 
ened silks  over  a  face  sucked  dry  of  all  but  passion  and  the 
shrunken  charms  of  decadence.  She  is  a  sort  of  doll — a  Pril- 
zelpuppe — with  her  long  black  legs  and  her  pale  face  thrust 
out  from  either  end  of  a  pierrot's  costume.  Very  much  of  a 
doll  when  the  play  is  most  bitterly  cruel.  Dr.  Goll  flops  to 
the  floor,  dead,  when  he  finds  her  with  Schwartz.  Orska 
tiptoes  stiffly  towards  him,  manoeuvers  past  his  body  like  some 
marionette,  pokes  him  with  a  stiff  toe  and  squeaks  the  squeak 
of  a  doll.    Is  it  fear  or  pleasure  or  both?    A  clever  way  to 

83 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

do  Wedekind.  But,  in  the  end,  night  after  night  with  only 
self-display  to  remember. 

But  Berlin — or  Stockholm — is  not  Germany.  There  is 
ensemble  left  in  some  of  the  lesser  cities — there  is  even  en- 
semble in  Berlin  at  the  State  Schauspielhaus,  if  there  is  no  great 
individual  playing  there. 

The  illustrious  old  Burgtheater  in  Vienna  still  has  a  com- 
pany, if  it  lacks  a  distinguished  director.  They  manage  por- 
tions of  Tolstoi's  The  hiving  Corpse  very  well.  They  give  the 
episode  of  the  gypsies'  singing  to  Fedya  and  Mascha  as  it  was 
never  given  in  our  own  Redemption,  In  the  Burgtheater  it 
is  no  discreet  cabaret  turn.  The  women  and  the  men  hang  over 
the  lovers.  Their  song  is  a  frank  and  touching  celebration  of 
the  love  that  their  Mascha  has  won.  It  is  an  open  display  of 
sentimental  interest  in  love-making,  which  people  only  admit 
when  wine  or  perhaps  gypsy  blood  have  stilled  inhibitions. 
But  all  this  is  doubtless  more  a  matter  of  direction  than  of  act- 
ing. It  is  in  the  old  mother  of  Frau  Senders,  the  aristocrats 
of  Frau  Wilbrand  and  Herr  Herterich,  not  quite  so  much  so 
in  the  Fedya  of  Herr  Treszler  that  you  find  real  playing. 
It  is  hardly  possible  that  the  performance  of  Vildrac's  The  S.S, 
Tenacity  is  the  best  that  the  Burgtheater  gives;  but  it  is  a 
most  excellent  performance.  It  is  peculiarly  excellent,  be- 
cause, while  it  is  not  French,  it  seems  so  little  German  in  a 
racial  sense.    Artistically,  of  course,  it  is  most  decidedly  Teu- 

84 


THE  GERMAN  ACTOR 

ton.  It  has  the  hard,  firm  quality  of  German  acting. 
Copeau's  production  in  Paris  is  a  rational  thing;  it  is  almost 
like  a  reading,  a  very  intelligent,  sensitive  reading.  In  New 
York  we  played  it  in  flashes  of  misgiving  and  determination; 
it  was  unctuous  in  Augustin  Duncan's  roustabout  and  in  Claude 
Cooper's  English  sailor,  and  fine  and  sensitive  in  Marguerite 
Forrest's  rather  ladylike  barmaid;  but  the  rest  dropped  in  and 
out  of  illusion.  The  Viennese  actors  play  for  a  bright  and  firm 
actuality,  which  they  imagine  is  French.  It  isn't  precisely 
German,  but  technically  it  is  as  Teuton  in  thorough-going  emo- 
tionalism as  the  passionate  kiss  with  which  the  Viennese  play- 
ers replaced  the  salute  on  the  nape  of  the  neck  with  which  the 
French  Bastien  begins  his  wooing. 

Individual  acting  as  well  as  ensemble  flourishes  in  the  large 
company  that  serves  the  four  State  theaters  of  Munich.  It  is 
a  piece  of  good  fortune  that  both  opera  and  drama  are  under  a 
single  management,  and  that  pieces  may  be  given  in  any  one 
of  four  houses — the  small  modernist  Kunstler  Theater  of  Max 
Littmann  in  the  Ausstellungspark,  the  tiny,  wickedly  cheerful 
old  Residenz  Theater,  the  reformist  "amphitheater"  which 
Littmann  created  in  the  Prinzregenten  Theater,  or  the  National 
Theater,  just  as  much  the  conventional  old-fashioned  German 
opera  house  as  when  it  was  called  the  Hoftheater.  The  large 
company  and  the  breadth  of  repertory  which  these  theaters 
permit  to  be  given  efficiently  and  properly,  provides  some  ex- 

85 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ceptional  players  exceptionally  well-trained  and  in  an  interest- 
ing variety  of  parts. 

The  Munich  group  can  give  that  shock  of  virtuosity  which 
the  German  repertory  theaters  provide,  and  give  it  to  you  at 
highest  voltage.  On  one  evening,  for  example,  you  discover 
in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  a  most  exceptional  Grumio.  His 
name  is  Richard  Kellerhals,  and  he  is  the  sort  of  clown  that 
happens  once  in  ten  years  in  America.  He  is  not  a  Charlie 
Chaplin,  because  that  is  a  little  too  much  to  ask.  But  he  out- 
does any  other  movie-comic  that  I  can  recall.  He  is  not  a 
Jim  Barton,  because  he  does  not  drive  ahead  at  just  one  thing — 
Gargantuan  burlesque.  Kellerhals  plays  Grumio  with  his  face 
and  his  legs  and  his  brain.  His  odd,  wizened  little  face,  in- 
ordinately simple,  just  a  bit  loony;  his  acrobatic  legs,  quick  and 
comic,  getting  him  into  all  manner  of  strange  places;  his  brain, 
always  alert  behind  the  mask  of  the  loon,  working  out  a  dozen 
amusing  twists  of  business.  It  seems  a  highly  original  per- 
formance, though  perhaps  it  is  merely  tradition  in  Germany 
that  Grumio  should  sniff  the  clothes  of  Biondello,  and  be 
sniffed  at,  all  within  the  bounds  of  decency,  but  very  like  two 
dogs  of  their  masters.  At  any  rate,  original  or  not,  it  is  the 
sort  of  sharp,  brilliant  fooling  that  would  make  Kellerhals  a 
musical  comedy  specialist  in  America,  perhaps  a  star. 

An  evening  or  two  later,  out  at  the  Ausstellungspark  you  see 
Hauptmann's  play  of  the  Peasants'  Rebellion,  Florian  Geyer. 

86 


THE  GERMAN  ACTOR 


Almost  the  first  figure  you  notice  among  the  peasants  who  are 
trying  desperately  to  make  themselves  far-seeing  leaders  in  the 
fight  against  the  trained  nobles,  is  a  gaunt  fellow  with  his  head 
in  a  bloody  bandage,  and  with  fever  in  his  eyes.  This  is  Gey- 
er's  brother-in-law  and  secretary  in  the  field,  a  boy  almost  on  the 
point  of  death  who  looks  like  a  sickened  man  of  thirty.  The 
desperate  impatience  of  the  worn  is  mingled  in  his  face  with 
the  fanatical  devotion  of  the  men  who  win  lost  causes.  The 
cause  is  lost  in  the  end,  and  after  he  has  watched  this  disillusion 
pile  upon  quarrels  and  jealousies  and  treasons,  he  crumples  up 
and  dies.  Every  word  of  his  tragedy  you  can  read  in  his  face. 
When  you  look  at  your  program  you  find  that  the  name  of  the 
actor  is  Richard  Kellerhals.  In  America — if  Kellerhals  had 
acted  this  part  before  Grumio — he  would  be  competing  with 
William  B.  Mack  in  the  playing  of  tortured  gunmen  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

Quite  as  good  acting  and  almost  as  varied  impersonations  are 
to  be  seen  in  the  work  of  Friedrich  Ulmer  as  Petruchio  and  as 
Geyer.  His  Geyer — strong,  simple,  desperate  in  anger — is 
easy  to  imagine  on  our  stage  j  Lionel  Barrymore  could  do  it. 
But  his  Petruchio — a  coarse,  bull-necked,  and  most  amusing 
devil — is  another  matter.  It  sins  against  the  pretty  romance 
of  our  Van  Dyked  Shakespeare.  And  it  is  famously  good  fun, 
along  with  the  whole  riotous  show. 

Dresden  has  a  company  that  makes  no  difficulty  over  play- 
^  87 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

ing  Shaw's  Pygmalion  one  night,  in  German  provincial  accents 
that  are  supposed  to  approximate  the  English  dialects  pursued 
and  recorded  by  Professor  Higgins  under  the  portico  of  Covent 
Garden,  and  over  playing  the  next  night  a  comic  and  poetic 
romance  of  India  called  Vasantasena  by  a  king  called  Sudraka. 
Here  the  women  come  out  rather  more  sharply  than  most  of 
the  men,  two  fine  performances  in  particular  by  Melitta  Leith- 
ner  as  Eliza,  the  flower  girl,  and  Alice  Verden  as  Vasantasena. 
The  company  cannot  escape,  however,  a  beefy  German  tenor- 
hero,  one  of  the  sort  that  seems  in  danger  any  moment  of  turn- 
ing into  a  leading  woman  with  a  heavy  beard. 

Frankfort  has  perhaps  less  real  acting  talent  than  is  to  be 
found  in  any  of  the  State  theaters  of  the  larger  cities.  It  shows 
an  atrocious  performance  of  Feer  Gynt»  Yet,  given  direction 
such  as  Richard  Weichert  furnishes  in  Schiller's  Maria  Stuart^ 
and  it  seems  a  company  of  genius.  Carl  Ebert,  a  bad  Peer 
Gynt,  manages  a  Leicester  of  real  subtlety  3  the  Elizabeth  of 
Gerda  Miiller  seems  a  tempestuous  horror,  and  the  whole 
thing  is  lighted  by  many  excellent  small  bits  of  acting. 

There  seems  to  be  a  certain  hard,  uncompromising  insistence 
in  all  German  acting.  It  is  a  thing,  perhaps,  of  narrow  spirit 
and  deep  intensity.  It  has  unquestioned  vitality.  In  Grabbers 
old  drama.  Napoleon^  which  Jessner  gives  at  the  State  Schaus- 
pielhaus  in  Berlin,  this  vitality  leaps  to  union  most  happily 
with  the  intoxication  that  Bonaparte  spread  about  him  always, 

88 


THE  GERMAN  ACTOR 

and  never  more  extraordinarily  than  in  the  Hundred  Days 
which  this  play  chronicles.  It  is  all  vitality,  the  impatient 
vitality  of  the  soldiers  of  Wolfgang  Heinz  and  Lothar  Miithel, 
who  await  Napoleon's  return,  the  besotted  and  sinister  vitality 
of  the  new  mob  of  the  carmagnole^  the  energizing  vitality  of 
Rudolf  Forster's  Wellington,  the  sober,  slow  but  potent 
vitality  of  Arthur  Krauszneck's  Bliicher,  and  that  font  of  in- 
domitable self-assertion  Napoleon  himself,  played  by  Ludwig 
Hartau.  Even  the  old  Humpty-Dumpty  Louis  of  Leopold  von 
Ledebur,  and  the  courtiers  who  prop  him  up  on  his  throne 
take  on  a  certain  fixity  of  purpose — perhaps  a  deathly  fixity 
— from  the  vitality  flowing  round  them. 

In  other  performances  of  Jessner's  company  this  vitality 
flows  over  into  mere  vigor,  even  into  violence.  That  is  the 
besetting  sin  of  the  German  actor.  Fritz  Kortner,  celebrated 
for  his  Richard  HI  and  his  Othello,  ranges  from  unnatural 
suppression  of  feeling,  from  studied  and  almost  whispered 
restraint,  to  mad  screechings.  An  almost  neurotic  violence 
crops  up  somewhere  in  every  other  performance  in  Germany. 
Even  the  women  fall  into  it.  Gerda  Miiller's  Elizabeth,  after 
an  evening  of  excellent,  mastered  power,  breaks  out  into  the 
hoarse-voiced  raving  that  seems  more  a  mark  of  the  male 
players.  Sudden  spurts  of  laying  it  on  too  thick  appear  in  some 
of  the  secondary  players  of  Florian  Geyer,  The  comic  villain 
of  Vasantasena  plays  the  whole  thing  in  a  knot  of  petty  passion. 

89 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

It  is  ranting,  this  sort  of  thing,  no  matter  how  far  it  may- 
be from  the  orotund  mouthings  of  our  old-school  players,  no 
matter  how  much  sharp  characterization  and  genuine  passion 
may  be  forced  into  it. 

The  performance  of  Masse-Mensch  at  the  Volksbiihne  in 
Berlin  stands  out  because  it  manages  to  carry  intensity  of  feel- 
ing to  a  point  just  short  of  violence,  and  then,  with  every 
excuse  provided  in  this  desperate  story  of  thwarted  revolution, 
to  bring  it  up  short  at  the  right  moment  into  high-pitched  but 
beautiful  vehemence.  The  outstanding  impression  must  be 
the  astounding  diction  of  the  mob  that  speaks  clearly,  rhythmi- 
cally, and  most  movingly  with  a  single  common  voice ;  it  gives 
you  a  sudden  vision  of  what  the  Greek  chorus  may  have  been, 
and  why  thirty  thousand  people  listened.  But  the  power  of 
Mary  Dietrich  as  the  Christ-figured,  Christ-tortured  woman 
is  almost  as  unforgettable. 

Looking  back  across  these  forty-odd  performances,  I  find 
that  a  very  simple  and  very  brief  bit  of  acting  stands  out  as 
sharply  as  any.  It  is  the  quiet,  sadly  amusing,  little  Buddhist 
priest  in  Vasantasena  as  played  by  Erich  Ponto.  It  is  not  a 
thing  the  German  stage  often  discloses,  this  delicate  mingling 
of  humor  and  reverence.  If  it  were,  the  people  from  Moscow 
who  played  The  Cherry  Orchard  would  not  have  seemed  to 
come  from  the  one  land  where  acting  is  a  rounded  and  tem- 
pered perfection. 

90 


CHAPTER  VIII 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

ACTING  is  the  oldest  thing  in  the  theater.  It  comes 
before  the  play,  because  in  the  beginning  the  actor 
"  and  the  playwright  are  one.  Drama  originates  when 
two  or  three  people  are  seized  with  a  desire  to  give  an  old 
legend  or  an  old  ritual  a  living  form.  They  want  to  act.  As 
they  act  they  make  up  their  play.  The  theater  becomes  the 
spot  that  seems  a  good  place — either  spiritually,  physically, 
or  by  force  of  tradition — in  which  to  give  the  play.  In  time 
comes  a  division  of  labor.  One  of  the  actors  begins  to  special- 
ize on  the  play.  This  actor  studies  how  he  can  develop  the 
form  of  the  play  to  make  better  use  of  the  theater^  and  then, 
with  some  leader  among  the  actors,  he  begins  to  speculate  on 
how  to  change  the  theater  in  order  to  give  more  scope  to  the 
playwright  and  to  the  player  who  interprets  him. 

That  is  the  history  of  the  theater  through  twenty-five  cen- 
turies. It  begins  with  the  actor,  and  it  comes  very  close  to 
ending  with  him. 

It  is  rather  a  good  thing  to  understand  about  the  history 
of  the  theater.    It  gives  you  a  certain  respect  for  the  actor 

91 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

which  actors  do  not  always  inspire.  It  makes  you  patient  with 
the  difficulties  of  writing  anything  intelligible  on  this  most 
ancient  and  most  complex  and  most  unsubstantial  of  all  the 
things  of  the  theater.  It  makes  you  realize  the  dangers  of 
dogmatizing  on  the  subject.  And,  if  you  can  look  back  with 
imagination  to  the  day  of  Garrick  and  his  great  apron  stage 
and  his  Hamlet  in  knickerbockers,  back  to  the  day  of  Burbage 
and  his  sunlit  platform  in  the  midst  of  an  Elizabethan  mob, 
back  to  ^schylus  answering  the  chorus  of  the  Furies  in  the 
half  circle  of  Athenians  that  piled  up  the  hillside  of  the  Acrop- 
olis ^  perhaps,  then,  you  will  see  that  the  actor  was  not  always 
a  fellow  with  a  false  beard  or  the  manners  of  a  soda  water 
clerk,  who  expects  you  to  believe  that  he  is  no  actor  at  all, 
but  a  family  doctor  or  an  employee  of  Mr.  Liggett  who  has 
taken  to  living  in  a  room  with  one  side  gone.  At  any  rate 
a  little  hint  of  theatrical  history,  full  of  amazing  surprises, 
might  make  you  tolerant  of  such  speculations  as  the  following 
on  the  four  types  of  acting  to  be  seen  in  the  theater  to-day  and 
on  what  is  to  come  of  them. 

The  art  of  acting  is  a  miscellaneous  sort  of  art.  I  imagine 
that  types  of  acting  which  we  think  very  new  and  modern 
were  to  be  found  in  every  age  except  the  first.  Probably  some 
famous  Greek  comedian  made  his  entrance  in  The  Frogs 
looking  so  amazingly  like  the  statue  of  Herakles  on  the  Acrop- 
olis that  for  half  a  minute  nobody  could  be  sure  that  this  was 

92 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

really  the  actor  whom  they  had  expected  to  see.  In  Shake- 
speare's day  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  man  who  played  Caliban 
got  together  a  collection  of  false  hair  and  wooden  tusks  which 
made  every  one  wonder  who  the  new  member  of  the  company 
could  be.  And  probably  among  the  Greeks  and  the  Eliza- 
bethans there  were  players  so  amazingly  like  servants  or  kings 
in  face  and  carriage  that  they  never  played  anything  else.  Yet 
it  is  safe  to  say,  nevertheless,  that  the  actor's  trick  of  trying 
to  look  like  a  different  human  being  in  each  new  play  and 
never  at  all  like  himself,  and  his  other  trick  of  never  looking 
like  anything  but  himself  and  always  playing  exactly  the  same 
kind  of  part,  are  histrionic  symptoms  of  the  disease  called 
Realism.  There  was  never  so  much  literal  and  deliberate  im- 
personation as  in  Europe  to-day,  and  so  much  "type  casting" 
as  along  Broadway. 

These  are  two  very  different  methods  of  work,  but  they 
both  reach  the  same  end — absolute  resemblance — and  neither 
has  necessarily  anything  to  do  with  art.  The  first — for  which 
the  word  "impersonation"  is  commonly  and  very  loosely  used — 
is  pretty  generally  esteemed  to-day.  It  is  considered  to  mark 
off  the  actor,  even  the  artist,  from  the  crowd  of  clever 
mummers.  It  is  hard  to  deny  an  instant  and  hearty  interest 
in  any  player  who  can  look  like  and  act  like  a  tramp  one 
night,  and  like  a  barbaric  king  the  next.  The  emotion  he 
creates  as  a  king,  or  the  artist's  vision  he  displays  in  selecting 

93 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

his  material  and  making  Form  out  of  it,  may  be  great  or  small. 
But  his  ingenuity  in  masquerade  will  always  win  admiration. 
In  fact  we  are  pretty  sure  to  spend  our  time  praising  such  an 
actor  as  Ben- Ami  for  looking  like  a  neurotic  artist  in  Samson 
and  Delilah^  and  like  a  husky  young  horse-thief  in  The  Idle 
Inny  instead  of  recognizing  the  artistic  distinction  these  imper- 
sonations show. 

Examined  in  cold  blood,  the  virtue  of  this  sort  of  acting 
is  the  virtue  of  the  wig-maker.  The  difference  between  a 
Van  Dyke  and  a  pair  of  mutton  chops;  the  difference  between 
Flesh  Color  No.  1  and  Flesh  Color  No.  3j  the  difference 
between  a  waiter's  dress  suit  bought  on  the  Bowery,  and  a 
doublet  designed  by  James  Reynolds  and  made  by  Mme.  Frei- 
singer — that  is  the  secret  of  this  kind  of  acting.  Not  the  whole 
secret,  of  course,  for  the  pose  of  the  actor's  body,  the  grace  or 
awkwardness  of  his  carriage,  the  lift  of  an  eyebrow,  or  the 
droop  of  a  lip  is  quite  as  important.  Such  things,  however, 
have  no  more  of  art  or  emotion  in  them  than  the  tricks  of 
make-up.  They  can  give  us  recollections  of  real  persons  or 
figures  in  literature,  in  painting,  or  in  other  plays,  about  whom 
we  have  felt  emotion.  But  it  is  not  until  the  actor  puts  Form 
of  his  own  into  this  lay  figure,  by  the  movement  of  his  body, 
and  the  emotion  of  his  voice,  that  anything  approaching  art 
can  be  said  to  exist. 

Stanislavsky  may  look  like  a  colonel  in  The  Three  SisterSy 

94 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

and  like  a  spineless  gentleman  in  The  Cherry  Orchard;  but  that 
is  not  the  measure  of  his  art.  Stanislavsky  might  even  be  a 
colonel  on  leave  w^ho  took  a  fancy  to  acting,  or  a  spineless 
gentleman  who  lost  his  patrimony  and  fell  back  on  his  univer- 
sity reputation  as  an  amateur  actor  5  and  he  v^ould  still  have 
to  prove  himself  an  artist. 

There  is  an  amusing  similarity  and  contrast  between  the 
two  varieties  of  realistic  actors.  The  first  impersonates  a  dif- 
ferent character  in  every  play,  and  never  himself.  The  sec- 
ond impersonates  the  same  character  in  every  play  and  always 
himself.  The  first  impersonates  by  changing;  the  second  by 
remaining  the  same. 

Provided  that  there  is  a  large  and  varied  supply  of  types — • 
military  men,  bar-keeps,  politicians,  artist-neurotics,  criminal- 
neurotics,  he-men,  she-men,  rabbit-men,  not  to  mention  all 
sorts  of  women — the  result  on  a  play  should  not  be  so  very 
different  whichever  system  of  acting  is  adopted.  If  a  play- 
goer were  to  see  only  one  play,  he  couldn't  detect  any  difference. 
If  he  were  to  see  two,  he  would  be  likely  to  get  some  added 
pleasure  out  of  the  knowledge  that  the  same  people  were  act- 
ing both,  and  he  would  probably  use  up  on  the  business  of 
spying  out  the  tricks  of  it  all  a  good  deal  of  the  energy  and 
attention  that  he  ought  to  give  to  the  play. 

There  is  one  practical  difference,  however,  in  these  two 
ways  of  casting  a  play.   You  cannot  make  a  repertory  company 

95 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

out  of  types.  In  spite  of  the  old  jargon  about  Leading  Man, 
Leading  Woman,  Juvenile,  Old  Man,  Ingenue,  Heavy,  Char- 
acter Man,  and  so  forth,  no  permanent  company  giving  real- 
istic plays  can  get  along  without  actors  v^ho  can  achieve  some 
sort  of  differentiation.  Since  the  German  theater  and  most  of 
the  European  theater  is  run  on  the  repertory  system,  the  Conti- 
nental actor  is  generally  a  man  adept  in  masquerade.  Because 
America  has  no  repertory  theater,  because  producers  in  New 
York  pick  new  actors  out  of  the  apple  barrel  for  every  new 
play,  and  because  almost  all  the  legitimate  actors  of  America 
make  New  York  their  headquarters,  the  system  of  casting  by 
type  is  the  natural,  workable  system  for  us. 

Type  acting  need  not  mean  that  the  type  the  actor  plays 
is  absolutely  identical  with  his  own  personality  in  private  life. 
It  usually  isn't.  But  it  does  mean  that,  because  of  his  own 
personality,  his  physical  and  mental  equipment,  the  actor  is 
able  to  play  a  very  similar  type  to  his  own.  Two  excellent 
examples  of  this  are  Frank  Craven  and  Ernest  Truex.  In 
real  life  they  are  never  Tommy  Tucker  of  The  First  Year  or 
the  hero  of  Six  Cylinder  Love^  but  on  the  stage  they  are  never 
anything  else.  It  is  just  possible  that  they  could  be  some- 
thing else,  but  they  began  this  way,  and  this  way  the  managers 
and  the  public  will  probably  make  them  continue. 

All  of  which  brings  up  a  single  artistic  point  upon  which 
varied  impersonations  and  the  repertory  theater  defeat  type 

96 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

casting.  Type  casting  is  apt  to  tie  a  man  to  the  kind  of  part 
he  first  acts  with  any  ability,  and  not  the  kind  he  can  act  best. 
He  may  be  able  to  play  ten  different  sorts  of  characters,  and 
one  or  two  of  these  may  release  something  in  him  that  permits 
him  to  be  a  true  artist  in  his  impersonation.  But  if  he  hap- 
pens to  play  some  other  of  the  ten  characters  first,  and  play 
it  reasonably  well,  our  casting  system  may  keep  him  from  ever 
reaching  those  characters  in  which  he  might  excel.  For  an- 
other thing,  the  constant  change  of  parts  in  a  repertory  theater 
gives  an  actor  practice  that  he  cannot  get  if  he  repeats  type 
parts  in  fewer  plays,  as  he  must  do  in  America.  Through  this 
practice  with  varying  parts,  he  may  come  to  add  something 
of  artistic  significance  to  his  work. 

A  nice  esthetic  point  arises  if  you  find  a  type-actor — say 
Craven — giving  an  extraordinarily  good  performance.  He 
is  playing  himself,  we  will  sayj  yet  within  that  familiar  per- 
sonality, he  is  achieving  just  as  interesting  emotion  as  some 
other"  actor  of  a  diflFerent  personality,  but  possessing  the  knack 
of  varied  impersonation,  could  achieve  j  he  is  even  reaching 
a  sense  of  Form,  selecting  out  of  his  own  personality,  experi- 
ence, and  emotion,  and  combining  these  into  a  shape  that 
moves  us  esthetically — whether  to  laughter  or  to  tears.  Is 
this  art.r*  Would  it  be  art  if  the  actor  were  Georgie  Price  imi- 
tating Craven,  or  somebody  from  the  Moscow  Art  Theater 
impersonating  Craven.?    Would  it  be  art  if  Craven  played  a 

97 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

character  so  different  from  himself  as  the  savant  in  He  Who 
Gets  Slapped^  and  played  it  as  successfully  as  he  has  played 
Tommy  Tucker?  Unquestionably  the  answer  to  the  last  ques- 
tion would  be  Yes.  As  for  the  others,  there  is  legitimate  room 
for  argument. 

This  business  of  varied  impersonation  versus  self-imperson- 
ation  arouses  a  great  deal  of  dispute.  The  most  interesting  fea- 
ture of  the  squabble  is  that  usually  the  opponent  of  self-imper- 
sonation  or  type-acting  points  back  with  mournful  pride  to 
some  of  the  great  actors  of  the  past  like  Booth  or  Forrest. 
When  he  does  this,  he  passes  clean  outside  of  realistic  acting. 
Moreover,  he  brings  into  the  argument  actors,  who,  while  they 
played  a  wide  variety  of  parts,  never  took  the  trouble  to  hide 
behind  the  wig-maker  or  to  pretend  to  be  anybody  else  physi- 
cally than  the  great  Edwin  Booth  or  the  celebrated  Edwin 
Forrest. 

To-day  we  have  this  same  kind  of  acting,  I  imagine — and 
this  is  the  third  kind  that  I  want  to  list — in  the  work  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  Giovanni  Grasso,  Margaret  Anglin,  or  Clare  Eames. 
If  you  started  out  to  list  the  players  who  use  their  own  mask 
frankly  for  every  part,  achieving  impersonation  and  emotion 
by  their  use  of  features  and  voice  as  instruments,  you  would 
find  many  more  names  of  women  than  of  men;  for  the  actress 
has  far  fewer  opportunities  than  the  actor  to  employ  the  inge- 
nuities of  make-up.    You  would  also  find,  I  think,  that  your 

98 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

list  was  not  so  very  long,  and  that  it  contained  the  names  of 
most  of  the  players  of  great  distinction  from  Eleanora  Duse 
to  Charlie  Chaplin.  There  is  magic  in  the  soul  of  such 
players,  not  in  their  make-up  boxes.  They  create  their  im- 
personations before  your  eyes,  not  in  their  dressing  rooms.  You 
may,  perhaps,  be  tempted  to  say  that  their  art  lies  in  the 
voice,  that  the  face  is  a  mask.  But  the  face  is  obviously 
not  a  permanent  maskj  it  changes  not  only  from  character  to 
character  in  many  subtle  ways,  but  from  scene  to  scene,  and 
emotion  to  emotion.  Also,  there  is  Chaplin,  the  voiceless  j 
his  face  speaks.    It  seems  a  mask,  too,  but  it  is  articulate. 

Such  acting  may  be  given — and  usually  is  given — to  the  in- 
terpretation of  realistic  drama.  It  belongs  at  heart  to  another 
thing,  to  almost  another  age,  past  or  to  come.  It  achieves 
the  necessary  resemblance  through  the  inner  truth  of  its  art. 
But  it  never  submits  to  submergence.  It  reaches  out  towards 
a  kind  of  acting  that  we  used  to  have  and  that  we  will  have 
again,  while  it  meets  the  necessities  of  Realism. 

This  fourth  kind  of  acting  may  be  called  presentational — 
a  word  that  derives  its  present  use  from  a  distinction  set  up 
by  Alexander  Bakshy  in  his  The  Path  of  the  Russian  Stage, 
Presentational  acting,  like  presentational  production,  stands  in 
opposition  to  representational.  The  distinction  is  clear  enough 
in  painting,  where  a  piece  of  work  that  aims  to  report  an 
anecdote,  or  to  photograph  objects,  is  representational,  and  a 

99 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

piece  of  work  striving  to  show  the  relation  of  forms  which 
may  or  may  not  be  of  the  everyday  worldj  is  presenta- 
tional. In  the  theater  Bakshy  makes  a  parallel  distinction 
between  a  scenic  background  that  attempts  to  represent  with 
canvas  and  paint  actual  objects  of  wood  or  rock  or  whatnot, 
and  a  background  that  presents  itself  frankly  as  what  it  is — 
curtains,  for  instance,  or  an  architectural  wall.  The  distinction 
applies  to  acting  as  well.  A  Broadway  actor  in  a  bald  wig 
or  an  actor  naturally  bald,  who  is  trying  to  pretend  that  he  is 
in  a  room  off  in  Budapest,  and  who  refuses  to  admit  that  he 
knows  it  is  all  a  sham,  and  that  a  thousand  people  are  watching 
him,  is  a  representational  actor,  or  a  realist.  An  actor  who 
admits  that  he  is  an  actor,  and  that  he  has  an  audience  before 
him,  and  that  it  is  his  business  to  charm  and  move  this  audi- 
ence by  the  brilliance  of  his  art,  is  a  presentational  actor. 
The  difference  deserves  better  terms,  but  they  do  not  yet  exist. 

It  is  obvious  enough  that  the  first  actors  were  presentational. 
The  Greek  men  who  shouted  village  gossip  from  the  wains, 
and  made  plays  of  it,  were  villagers  known  to  every  one.  The 
actors  in  the  first  dramatic  rituals  may  have  worn  masks,  but 
they  were  frankly  actors  or  priests,  not  the  gods  and  heroes 
themselves.  Roscius  was  Roscius,  Moliere  was  Moliercj  even 
the  Baconians  cannot  deny  that  Shakespeare  was  Shakespeare 
when  he  appeared  as  old  Adam.  I  would  maintain  that  Gar- 
rick  and  Siddons,  Talma  and  Rachel  were  frankly  actors  3  did 

100 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

they  not  see  the  audience  out  there  under  the  light  of  the 
same  chandeliers  that  lit  their  stage? 

To-day  our  greatest  players  reestablish  to  some  extent  the 
bond  with  the  audience  when  they  abandon  any  attempt  to 
represent  their  characters  through  wigs  and  make-up,  and 
present  their  own  faces  frankly  as  vehicles  of  expression.  In 
comedy  and  in  tragedy  presentational  acting  comes  out  most 
easily.  There  is  something  in  really  great  sorrow — not  the 
emotions  of  the  thwarted  defectives  of  our  realistic  tragedies 
— that  leaps  out  to  an  audience.  Hecuba  must  speak  her  sor- 
row to  the  chorus  and  over  the  chorus  to  the  people  who  have 
come  to  the  theater  for  the  single  purpose  of  hearing  it.  There 
can  be  no  fitting  communion  with  the  characters  who  have 
caused  the  tragedy  or  been  stricken  by  it.  The  sufferer  must 
carry  her  cup  of  sorrow  to  the  gods;  they  alone  can  drink  of  it 
and  make  it  less.  And  the  great  fact  of  the  theater  is  that  the 
audience  are  gods.  It  is  a  healthy  instinct  that  causes  many  an 
actress  in  a  modern  tragedy  to  turn  her  back  on  the  other  char- 
acters of  the  play,  and  make  her  lamentation  to  the  audience  as 
though  it  were  a  soliloquy  or  an  aside. 

There  are  gods  and  gods,  of  course,  and  it  is  to  Dionysus  and 
Pan  that  the  comedian  turns  when  he  shouts  his  jokes  out  across 
the  footlights.  In  fact  he  takes  good  care,  if  he  is  a  wise  clown, 
that  the  footlights  shan't  be  there  to  interfere.  If  he  is  Al 
Jolson,  he  insists  on  a  runway  or  a  little  platform  that  will  bring 

101 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

him  out  over  the  footlights  and  into  the  lap  of  the  audience.  If 
he  is  a  comedian  in  burlesque  like  Bobbie  Clark,  he  has  the 
house  lights  turned  up  as  soon  as  he  begins  a  comedy  scene. 
He  must  make  contact  somehow  with  his  audience.  If 
the  fun-maker  is  Fanny  Brice,  the  method  is  a  little  less 
obvious,  and  it  draws  us  closer  to  the  sort  of  presentational 
acting  which  will  dominate  many  theaters  in  the  future,  the 
sort  of  acting  that  presents  an  impersonation,  and  at  the  same 
time  stands  off  with  the  audience,  and  watches  it.  If  the 
player  is  Ruth  Draper  or  Beatrice  Herford,  you  have  some- 
thing that  seems  to  me  almost  identical  with  the  kind  of  acting 
I  am  trying  to  define. 

I  present  these  four  categories  of  acting  for  what  they  are 
worth.  They  are  frankly  two-dimensional.  They  are  divi- 
sions in  a  single  plane.  Other  planes  cut  across  them,  and  the 
categories  in  these  planes  intersect  the  ones  I  have  defined. 
Consider  almost  any  player,  and  you  will  find  a  confusion  of 
methods  and  results  which  will  need  more  explanation  than  I 
have  provided.  There  is  Richard  Kellerhals,  for  instance,  the 
Munich  player  whose  strikingly  different  work  in  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew  and  Florian  Geyer  I  have  described.  This  is  not 
impersonation  achieved  with  make-up.  It  is  a  thing  of  expres- 
sion, a  spiritual  thing.  Take  the  actors  of  the  Moscow  Art 
Theater.  They  use  make-up  to  the  last  degree,  but  there  is 
always  a  spiritual  differentiation  far  more  significant  than  the 

102 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

physical,  and  there  is  always  a  sense  of  the  Form  of  life  more 
important  than  either.  Harry  Lauder  has  one  impersonation 
— The  Saftest  of  the  Family — which  is  so  different  from  his 
others  in  almost  every  way  that  for  the  moment  he  might  be  a 
different  player.  Here  is  a  presentational  actor  indulging  in 
the  tricks  of  the  realistic  impersonator,  and  showing  that, 
while  the  fields  of  realistic  impersonation  and  presentational 
acting  are  not  absolutely  exclusive,  at  least  they  are  somewhat 
incongruous  or  at  any  rate  mutually  hampering.  Louis  Jouvet 
of  the  Theatre  du  Vieux-Colombier  presents  an  opposite  phe- 
nomenon when  he  appears  in  the  realistic  drama  Les  Freres 
Karamazov  as  the  horrific  old  father,  Feodor,  and  in  Twelfth 
Night  as  Aguecheek.  These  are  absolutely  contradictory  im- 
personations. In  each  case  Jouvet  completely  disguises  his 
own  personality.  The  interesting  point  is  that  the  physical 
impersonation  which  he  brings  to  the  Russian  play  is  essentially 
unrealistic.  It  is  all  very  carefully  designed  in  costume,  make- 
up, and  gesture  as  a  broad  and  striking  expression,  but  not  as  a 
representation,  of  rough  dominance.  The  red  face  and  the 
green  coat  mix  in  the  olive-bronze  hat.  His  hair  and  his  hat, 
his  coat  and  his  elbows  flare  out  in  lines  of  almost  comic  vio- 
lence. He  is  very  close  to  caricature  in  a  thoroughly  realistic 
play.  Here  is  a  curious  mixture  of  methods  and  ends — planes 
and  categories  cutting  across  one  another  and  creating  new 
figures. 

103 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Copeau's  Vieux-Colombier  is  to-day  the  most  interesting 
forcing  bed  of  the  new  acting  in  Europe — unless  the  Kamerny 
Theater  of  the  Russian  expressionists  is  nourishing  more  than 
scenery.  Copeau's  theater,  with  its  naked  stage  and  almost  per- 
manent architectural  setting,  its  lack  of  proscenium  and  foot- 
lights, and  its  steps  and  forestage  leading  down  to  the  audience, 
makes  unquestionably  for  presentational  acting.  The  illusion 
of  Realism  and  representation  is  extremely  difficult  to  attain. 
In  four  plays,  Les  Treves  Karamazov^  Tnsoeljth  Nighty  The  S.  S, 
Tenacity y  and  Le  Carrosse  du  St,-Sacrementy  varied  as  they  are, 
we  see  no  great  amount  of  the  sort  of  masquerading  which 
Jouvet  does  so  well  in  the  first  two.  In  the  main,  the  actors  keep 
their  own  normal  appearance  throughout  j  but  they  are  not,  of 
course,  playing  types.  To  some  extent,  therefore,  they  are 
working  in  the  vein  of  Bernhardt  and  Grasso,  striving  for  im- 
personation in  emotion  rather  than  in  physique.  Except  for  a 
gouty  foot  and  a  simple  change  in  costume,  Copeau's  Peruvian 
governor  in  the  comedy  Le  Carrosse  du  St.-Sacrementy  and  his 
impersonation  of  the  intellectual  brother  of  the  house  of  Kara- 
mazov  are  outwardly  very  much  alike.  It  is  in  the  mood  alone 
that  he  registers  the  difference.  In  both,  but  particularly  in 
the  comic  governor,  there  is  a  touch  of  the  presentational  atti- 
tude which  fills  the  rest  of  the  company  in  varying  degrees 
and  informs  most  of  Twelfth  Night.  The  difference  between 
this  acting  and  what  we  are  accustomed  to,  is  particularly  plain 

104 


NEW  ACTING  FOR  OLD 

in  a  comparison  of  the  English  sailor  as  played  in  the  New 
York  production  of  The  S.  S.  Tenacity y  and  in  the  Paris  produc- 
tion— the  oily  reality  of  Claude  Cooper's  impersonation  against 
the  rather  brash,  certainly  very  dry  version  of  Robert  Allard. 
Allard's  performance  has  the  stamp  of  almost  all  the  acting  at 
the  Vieux-Colombier.  It  is  something  intellectually  settled 
upon  as  an  expression  of  an  emotion,  and  then  conveyed  to  the 
audience  almost  as  if  read  and  explained.  In  the  school  of 
CopeaUj  v^ho  v^as  once  journalist  and  critic,  there  is  ever  some- 
thing of  the  expounder.  It  is  a  reading,  an  explanation,  in  the 
terms  of  a  theatrical  performance.  It  is,  to  a  certain  degree, 
presentational,  because  in  every  reading,  in  every  explanation, 
there  must  be  an  awareness  of  the  existence  of  the  audience. 


105 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

PLAYS  of  a  new  expressionist  quality — profound,  grave, 
ecstatic,  and  as  far  from  the  neurotic  as  from  the 
realistic — may  be  written  in  the  next  few  years  with- 
out the  stimulus  of  a  great  expressionist  theater  or  a  great  ex- 
pressionist director.  How  they  are  going  to  get  themselves 
properly  produced  is  another  matter.  They  may  be  conceived 
out  of  the  spirit  of  the  time,  under  the  stimulus  of  the  expres- 
sionist settings  of  the  scene  designers  j  but  the  accouchement 
will  demand  a  rather  expert  midwife. 

Expressionist  acting,  on  the  contrary,  will  never  achieve 
more  than  a  hint  of  existence  without  a  director  to  call  it  forth. 
A  Copeau  is  necessary  to  bring  out  the  freshness  of  the  company 
of  the  Vieux-Colombier,  and  the  hints  it  gives  of  the  new 
acting.  A  rather  extraordinary  director  will  be  needed  to 
banish  representational  acting,  and  to  put  in  its  place  a  presenta- 
tional ensemble,  and  to  fuse  it  with  the  new  play. 

Is  there  such  a  man  in  Europe  to-day?  Is  there  already  an 
indication  of  his  coming  in  the  modifications  that  other  men 
have  wrought  in  acting,  in  setting,  and  even  in  theater? 

106 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

We  may  as  well  begin  with  Reinhardt.  He  has  been  the 
greatest  man  of  the  theater  of  this  century.  He  fled  from  his 
Berlin  theaters  in  1920,  to  find  in  Salzburg  a  retreat  from  dis- 
illusion and  a  place  of  new  beginnings.  We  found  him  there 
in  the  summer  of  1922  preparing  to  issue  forth  from  the 
baroque  beauty  of  the  loveliest  palace  of  this  lovely  city  to 
the  conquest  of  America,  and  to  an  experiment  in  Vienna  which 
may  make  him  again  the  one  figure  of  the  theater — the  direc- 
tor we  seek.  And  here  and  there  about  Europe  we  came  on 
spasmodic  signs  of  his  continued  activity — extraordinary  plans 
for  a  Festspielhaus  in  Salzburg  or  in  Geneva,  and  productions 
of  Orpheus  In  the  Underworld  and  Strindberg's  The  Dream 
Play  in  Stockholm. 

It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  to  call  Orpheus  and  The  Dream 
Play  efficient  pot-boilers,  and  to  let  them  go  at  that.  They 
give  no  true  measure  of  the  man  whose  strength  and  vision 
grew  from  art-cabarets  to  which  Balieff  owes  the  inspiration 
for  his  Chauve-Souris^  and  naturalistic  beginnings  with  Gorky 
and  Wedekind,  until  he  had  assembled  the  most  striking  com- 
pany and  repertory  west  of  Moscow,  and  centered  about  him- 
self the  whole  theatrical  movement  which  Craig  and  Appia 
began.  The  Swedish  productions  are  worth  a  moment's  atten- 
tion only,  for  they  show  some  of  Reinhardt's  faults,  and  hint 
at  a  virtue. 

I  write  of  Orpheus  alone,  because  the  qualities  of  the  Strind- 

107 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

berg  drama  were  only  to  be  guessed  at  from  photographs  and 
reports,  all  uniting  in  dispraise.  There  were  lovely  things  in 
this  performance  of  Offenbach's  operetta  for  which  neither 
director  nor  composer  could  claim  credit — the  light,  clear, 
nightingale  voices  of  the  women  of  the  Swedish  Opera,  their 
superb  figures,  and  the  icy  beauty  of  blue  eyes  and  ashen  hair. 
But  the  things  I  remember  from  Orpheus  in  which  Reinhardt 
had  a  share  are  often  disappointing  things,  scenes  slighted,  epi- 
sodes badly  lit,  above  all  carelessness  of  detail.  It  has  been 
Reinhardt's  major  fault,  this  failure  to  bring  every  feature  of 
a  production  to  the  highest  point  of  perfection  within  his  grasp. 
He  has  always  been  satisfied  to  slight  one  part  if  the  whole  could 
be  "put  over"  by  emphasis  on  another  part.  Those  who  re- 
member Sumurun  will  recall  things  in  this  brilliantly  exciting 
pantomime  that  struck  them  as  impossibly  slack — bad  paint- 
ing on  the  canvas  flats,  a  bald  contrast  between  the  flimsy  front 
scenes  and  the  solid  structure  of  the  court  of  the  harem  behind. 

In  Orpheus  his  negligence  seems  to  have  begun  in  the  choice 
of  a  designer.  A  Dane,  Max  Ree,  makes  a  mess  of  the  scene 
on  Olympus,  and  gets  to  nothing  better  elsewhere  than  a  golden 
gate  from  a  chapel  in  Nancy  set  against  a  blue  night;  Cupid 
against  a  gray  sky,  and,  for  the  descent  into  Hades,  white  rays 
from  out  a  great  cloud,  down  one  of  which  the  company  dances 
against  the  velvet  black  of  the  back  drop.  Before  now,  Rein- 
hardt has  let  himself  wander  from  his  first  instincts  and  desires 

108 


The  Cathedral  Scene  from  Faust.  A  Reinhardt 
production  of  1912,  designed  by  Ernst  Stern.  Two 
huge  columns  tower  up  against  black  emptiness. 
Crimson  light  from  the  unseen  altar  at  one  side 
streams  on  the  congregation  and  throws  quivering 
shadows  of  a  cross  on  the  nearer  column. 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

— which  are  usually  the  instincts  of  Ernst  Stern,  his  notable 
designer 3  there  are  the  horrors  of  Poelzig's  decoration  of  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus  to  testify  to  this. 

The  three  moments  of  Orpheus  which  electrified  Swedish 
audiences  are  common  enough  in  conception,  but  they  have 
something  of  the  simple  directness  and  smash  which  character- 
ized Reinhardt's  earlier  work.  The  three  episodes  are  closely 
linked  and  make  the  climax  of  the  piece.  There  again  you 
can  see  Reinhardt's  method — the  expenditure  of  so  much  of 
his  care  and  energy  upon  the  most  important  action  of  the 
play.  In  Orpheus  the  place  for  such  emphasis  is  the  revolt 
on  Mt.  Olympus,  and  the  descent  of  Jupiter  and  the  gods  to 
Hades.  Reinhardt  begins  with  the  carmagnole  of  the  revolu- 
tionists, with  their  red  banners  upon  long  poles  rioting  about 
in  the  light  blue  of  the  celestial  regions.  For  the  beginning  of 
the  descent  into  Hades,  Reinhardt  sees  to  it  that  there  shall  be 
a  high  point  at  the  very  back  of  the  stage,  and  from  here,  clear 
down  to  the  footlights  and  over  them  on  a  runway  beside  the 
boxes,  he  sends  his  gods  and  goddesses  cakewalking  two  at  a 
time  down  into  the  depths  of  the  orchestra  pit.  After  a  very 
brief  darkness,  while  the  cloud  and  its  rays  of  light  are  installed 
down  stage,  Reinhardt  sets  the  gods  prancing  down  this  white 
and  black  path  into  the  flaming  silk  mouth  of  hell.  By  recog- 
nizing an  opportunity  for  an  effect  at  the  crucial  point  of  the 
piece,  and  concentrating  upon  it  whatever  energies  he  has  for 

109 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Orpheus y  he  makes  the  descent  of  the  gods  far  more  memorable 
than  it  can  have  been  in  any  other  production.  Yet  it  all  seems 
a  trivial  and  half-hearted  effort  for  the  man  who  made  Shakes- 
peare so  tremendously  vital  at  the  Deutsches  Theater,  and 
lifted  Sophocles'  CEdipus  into  crashing  popularity  at  the  Circus 
Schumann. 

In  his  day  Reinhardt  was  all  things  to  all  men.  He  began 
with  the  great  naturalist  director  Brahm  of  the  Freie  Volks- 
biihne.  He  made  a  Night  Lodging  of  utter  Realism.  He 
put  on  A  Midsummer  Night^s  Dream  in  a  forest  of  papier^ 
mache.  He  brought  an  austere  symbolic  quality  to  Hamlet^ 
closing  the  play  with  those  tall,  tall  spears  that  shepherded 
the  body  of  the  Dane  upon  its  shield.  He  made  the  story  of 
Sister  Beatrice  into  a  gigantic  and  glorious  spectacle  in  The 
Miracle,  He  championed  intimacy  in  the  theater,  took  the 
actor  out  upon  a  runway  over  the  heads  of  the  audience  in 
Sumurun  and  finally,  at  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  he  put  the 
spectators  half  around  the  players,  and  thrust  the  players  in 
among  the  spectators  in  the  last  scene  of  Rolland's  Danton. 

Instinct  led  him  to  the  heart  of  plays,  as  it  led  him  from 
Realism  and  the  proscenium  frame  back  to  the  Greek  orchestra 
and  the  actor  as  a  theatrical  figure.  He  grasped  the  emotional 
heart  of  a  drama  with  almost  unerring  judgment,  and  he 
bent  a  tremendous  energy  to  the  task  of  making  the  heart  of 
the  audience  beat  with  it.    Occasionally  he  ignored  or  could 

110 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

not  animate  some  secondary  but  important  phase  of  a  play. 
In  The  Merchant  of  Venice^  though  he  'made  Shylock  rightly 
the  center  of  the  play  and  built  up  a  court  scene  of  intolerable 
excitement,  his  Portia  and  his  Nerissa  were  tawdry  figures. 
But  his  successes  were  far  greater  and  far  more  significant  than 
his  failures.  Romeo  and  Juliet  he  made  into  a  thing  of  youth- 
ful passion  that  was  almost  too  deep,  too  intimate  for  the  eyes 
of  strangers.  Hamlet  with  Moissi  was  an  experience  of  life 
itself,  asserting  again  the  emotional  quality  of  Reinhardt  as 
against  the  esthetic  quality  of  Craig. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak  of  the  part  that  Reinhardt 
played  in  establishing  the  vogue  of  the  designer  in  the  theater, 
of  his  attempt  to  bring  Craig  to  his  stage,  of  his  experiments 
with  stage  machinery  and  lighting  equipment,  or  of  the  extra- 
ordinary personal  energy  which  made  so  much  work  possible. 
The  German  theater  testifies  continually  to  his  influence. 
Dozens  of  younger  men  must  be  working  in  his  vein  to-day. 
As  far  north  as  Gothenburg,  the  commerical  city  of  Sweden, 
and  as  far  south  as  Vienna  his  influence  spreads. 

In  Gothenburg  works  a  young  director.  Per  Lindberg,  who 
is  as  patently  a  disciple  as  he  was  once  a  student  of  Reinhardt. 
There  in  the  Lorensberg  Theater  is  the  revolving  stage,  with 
settings  by  a  young  Swede,  Knut  Strom,  which  might  have 
been  seen  at  the  Deutsches  Theater  ten  years  ago.  A  large 
repertory  brings  forth  scenery  often  in  the  heavily  simplified 

llf 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

fashion  of  ten  years  ago,  but  sometimes  fresh  and  ambitious. 
Romeo  and  Juliet  appears  against  scenes  like  early  Italian 
paintings,  with  one  permanent  background  of  hill  and  cypresses 
and  a  number  of  naive  arrangements  of  arched  arcades  from 
some  Fra  Angelico.  The  artist  turns  regisseur  also  in  Every- 
maity  and  manages  a  performance  fresh  in  its  arrangement  of 
setting,  platforms,  and  steps,  if  a  little  reminiscent  in  costumes 
and  poses  and  movements. 

In  Richard  Weichert,  of  the  State  Schauspielhaus  in  Frank- 
fort, you  find  a  regisseur  w^ho  suggests  the  influence  of  Rein- 
hardt  without  losing  distinction  as  one  of  the  three  really  sig- 
nificant directors  of  Germany  to-day.  It  is  not  so  much  an 
influence  in  an  imitative  sense,  as  a  resemblance  in  effectiveness 
along  rather  similar  lines. 

Weichert,  like  so  many  of  the  outstanding  directors  of  Ger- 
many, has  a  single  artist  with  whom  he  works  on  terms  of  the 
closest  cooperation — Ludwig  Sievert.  It  is  a  little  hard,  there- 
fore, to  divide  the  credit  in  Maria  Stuart  for  many  of  the 
dramatic  effects  of  people  against  settings  and  in  light.  You 
might  put  down  the  scenic  ideas  wholly  to  Sievert,  since 
Weichert  has  permitted  the  use  of  a  particularly  poor  setting 
for  the  scene  of  Queen  Mary's  tirade  against  Elizabeth  j  a 
setting  which  is  a  sloppy  attempt  at  lyricism  in  keeping  with 
Mary's  speech  at  the  beginning  of  the  scene,  but  quite  out  of 
touch  with  the  dramatic  end.    If  Weichert  could  dictate  the 

112 


Maria  Stuart:  the  throne-room  at  Westminster. 
Tall  screens  of  blue  and  gold  are  ranged  behind  a 
dais  surmounted  by  a  high,  pointed  throne  of  dull 
gold.  At  either  side  curtains  of  silvery  blue. 
Queen  Elizabeth  wears  a  gown  of  gleaming  gold. 
A  Weichert  production  in  Frankfort  designed  by 
Sievert. 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

fine  prison  scene  reproduced  in  this  book,  he  would  hardly  allow 
Sievert  to  include  the  greenery-yallery  exterior  to  which  I 
have  taken  exception.  On  the  other  hand,  can  it  be  only  an 
accidental  use  that  Weichert  makes  of  the  curtains  in  the 
throne  room  scene?  The  act  begins  with  a  curious  arrange- 
ment of  square  blue  columns  in  an  angle  of  which  the  throne 
is  set.  When  the  audience  is  over,  pages  draw  blue  curtains 
from  each  side  of  the  proscenium  diagonally  backward  to  the 
columns  by  the  throne.  This  cuts  down  the  room  to  terms  of 
intimacy  for  the  council  scene.  The  point  at  which  Weichert 
must  enter  definitely  as  regisseur  comes  when  Elizabeth  steps 
to  one  side  of  the  room  away  from  her  group  of  councilors 
to  read  some  document  j  then  the  down-stage  edge  of  the  cur- 
tain at  the  side  by  the  councilors  is  drawn  back  far  enough  for 
a  flood  of  amber  light  to  strike  across  in  front  of  the  men,  and 
catch  the  white  figure  of  the  queen.  Here  in  this  light  she 
dominates  the  roomj  and  Leicester,  when  he  steps  into  it  for 
a  scene  with  Mortimer,  does  the  same.  It  is  a  device  of  great 
use  to  the  actor  in  building  up  the  power  and  atmosphere  of 
the  moment. 

The  dramatic  vigor  of  Weichert  never  goes  so  high  in  Maria 
Stuart  as  Reinhardt's,  but  he  is  never  so  careless  of  detail  or  of 
subordinate  scenes.  Almost  every  inch  of  the  play  seems  pains- 
takingly perfected.  Not  only  are  the  actors  who  give  so  sloppy 
a  performance  in  Peer  Gynt  under  another  director,  strung  up 

113 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

constantly  to  their  best  effort  5  but  every  detail,  from  contrasts 
in  costuming  and  the  arrangement  of  costumed  figures,  to  the 
motion  of  hands  and  bodies,  seems  calculated  to  heighten  the 
play's  emotion.  Take  the  first  scene,  for  example,  the  prison 
in  which  Queen  Mary  is  confined  with  her  few  retainers.  The 
drawing  shows  the  interesting  arrangement  of  the  scene  with 
bars  to  indicate  a  prison  but  not  to  obstruct  action.  It  pictures 
the  final  scene  in  a  later  act,  when  the  queen  receives  her  friends 
and  says  good-by  before  going  to  her  death.  The  contrast  of 
the  queen  in  white  and  the  others  in  black  is  excellent.  In  the 
first  act,  even  the  queen  is  in  black  5  the  only  note  of  color,  a 
deep  red,  is  given  to  the  heroic  boy,  Mortimer,  who  is  to  bring 
something  like  hope  to  Mary.  The  long  scene  between  Morti- 
mer and  the  queen  is  handled  with  great  dignity,  and  at  the 
same  time  intensity.  It  is  studied  out  to  the  last  details.  The 
hands  alone  are  worth  all  your  attention. 

Weichert's  direction  passes  on  from  atmosphere  and  move- 
ment to  the  expression  that  the  players  themselves  give  of  their 
characters.  It  is  here  perhaps  that  the  resemblance  to  Rein- 
hardt  is  closest.  You  catch  it  in  many  places:  the  contrast  be- 
tween Mortimer's  tense  young  fervor,  and  the  masterful,  play- 
acting nonchalance  of  Leicester  j  this  red  and  green  horror  of 
an  Elizabeth,  looking  somehow  as  bald  beneath  her  wig  as 
history  says  she  was,  and  bursting  with  pent  energies  and  pas- 
sions^ towards  the  end  of  the  play,  Leicester,  the  deliberate 

114 


Maria  Stuart:  a  room  in  the  castle  where  Queen 
Mary  is  imprisoned.  High  black  grills  fill  the 
proscenium  arch  on  either  side.  Behind,  a  flat 
wall  of  silvery  gray.  The  sketch  shows  the  mo- 
ment when  Mary,  gowned  and  veiled  in  white,  bids 
farewell  to  her  attendants.  A  Weichert  produc- 
tion in  Frankfort  designed  by  Sievert. 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

f opj  leaning  against  the  wall  like  some  wilted  violet,  Mortimer 
exhausted  but  still  strong  beside  him-  then  the  death  of  the 
boy,  the  quick  stabbing,  and  the  spears  of  the  soldiers  raying 
towards  his  body  on  the  floor.  It  is  all  sharp,  firm,  poised — 
and  very,  very  careful. 

This  is  the  past  of  Reinhardt — continued  into  the  present 
and  the  future  by  other  men.  What  of  his  own  continuation 
of  it?  Some  have  thought  him  finished.  Fifteen,  twenty 
years  of  such  accomplishment  in  the  theater  are  likely  to  drain 
any  man.  And  indeed  Reinhardt  does  seem  to  have  run 
through  his  work  in  Berlin,  and  finished  with  it.  No  one  will 
know  just  how  much  was  personal,  how  much  professional, 
how  much  philosophic,  in  the  force  that  drove  him  to  give 
up  the  leadership  of  his  great  organization,  and  see  it  destroyed. 
The  difficulties  of  management,  with  increasing  costs  and 
actors  lost  to  the  movies,  undoubtedly  weighed  heavily.  But 
it  is  certain  that  he  felt  the  failure  of  his  big,  pet  venture,  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus.  It  was  to  have  been  the  crown  of 
his  efforts  and  beliefs — the  "theater  of  the  five  thousand,"  as 
he  had  called  it  from  the  days  when  he  astounded  the  world 
with  CEdipus,  In  structure  and  design  it  was  badly  handled; 
it  proved  a  bastard  thing  and  won  the  severe  condemnation 
of  the  critics.  Added  to  this  was  a  desire,  unquestionably, 
to  shake  loose,  to  get  a  fresh  prospect  on  the  theater,  to  strike 
out  again  if  possible  towards  a  final,  sure  goal.  Germans 

115 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

spoke  of  Reinhardt  as  vacillating  and  uncertain  in  his  first  years 
in  Salzburg.  But  is  anything  but  uncertainty  to  be  ex- 
pected when  a  man  has  given  up  a  long  line  of  effort,  and  is 
seeking  a  new  one?  It  is  a  virtue  then  to  be  unsure,  to  be  test- 
ing and  trying  the  mind,  to  be  seeking  some  sort  of  truth  and 
repeatedly  rejecting  error. 

Certainty  began  to  creep  in  with  Reinhardt's  plan  for  a 
Festsfielhaus  in  Salzburg — a  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  of  simpler 
and  more  conservative  pattern  built  truer  on  a  knowledge  of 
the  mistakes  of  the  first.  It  was  to  unite  Reinhardt,  Richard 
Strauss,  the  composer,  and  Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal,  the  play- 
wright. It  reached  some  sort  of  tentative  plan  at  the  hands 
of  Poelzig,  who  mis-designed  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  and 
Adolf  Linnebach,  then  passed  on  to  Max  Hasait,  who  laid  out 
a  stage  scheme  for  some  new  architect  to  build  his  plans  around. 
This  scheme  called  for  a  semi-circular  forestage,  with  a  revolv- 
ing stage  in  its  center,  a  traveling  cyclorama  of  the  Ars  pattern 
behind  this  revolving  stage,  a  larger  cyclorama  taking  in  still  a 
deeper  stage,  and  another  and  a  larger  cyclorama  behind  that. 
The  proscenium  was  to  be  narrowed  or  widened  to  suit  the 
size  of  production  and  cyclorama.  The  house  itself  was  to 
be  as  adjustable,  with  a  ceiling  that  let  down  in  such  a  way 
as  to  cut  the  seating  capacity  from  three  or  four  thousand 
to  fifteen  hundred. 

While  this  project  waited  on  capital,  an  almost  hopeless 

116 


THE  REINHARDT  TRADITION 

condition  in  Austria,  and  hints  began  to  come  that  the  Festspiel^ 
haus  would  have  to  be  built  in  Geneva  instead,  a  new  oppor- 
tunity came  to  Reinhardt's  hands  through  President  Vetter, 
head  of  the  Austrian  State  theaters,  an  opportunity  of  work- 
ing in  a  playhouse  that  agreed  with  much  that  Reinhardt  had 
felt  about  the  relations  of  audience  and  actor.  He  was  invited 
to  produce  five  or  six  plays  in  the  fall  of  1922  in  the  new 
theater  in  the  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna.  Here,  upon  a  stage 
practically  without  setting,  and  within  a  room  that  holds  actors 
and  audience  in  a  matrix  of  baroque  richness,  Reinhardt 
will  have  produced,  by  the  time  this  book  appears,  the  follow- 
ing plays:  Turandot^  Gozzi's  Italian  comedy,  Clavigor  and 
Stella  by  Goethe,  Moliere's  Le  Misanthrope^  and  Dame  Cobalt 
by  Calderon.  Here  he  will  have  to  work  in  an  absolutely  non- 
realistic  vein,  he  will  have  to  explore  to  the  fullest  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  new  and  curious  sort  of  acting  which  I  have 
called  presentational.  This  adventure  in  Maria  Theresa's  ball- 
room will  measure  Reinhardt  against  the  future. 


117 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

THE  director  of  the  future  may  not  be  a  director  of 
to-day.  He  may  not  be  a  director  at  all.  He  may 
be  one  of  those  artists  whose  appearance  has  been 
such  a  distinctive  and  interesting  phenomenon  of  the  twentieth 
century  theater.  While  we  examine  Max  Reinhardt  to  dis- 
coxrer  if  he  is  likely  to  be  the  flux  which  will  fuse  the  expres- 
sionist play  and  the  presentational  actor,  it  may  be  that  the 
man  we  seek  is  his  former  designer  of  settings,  Ernst  Stern. 

The  relation  of  artist  and  director  in  the  modern  theater  has 
been  a  curious  one,  quite  as  intimate  as  that  of  pilot-fish  and 
shark,  and  not  so  dissimilar.  Attached  to  the  shark,  the  pilot- 
fish  has  his  way  through  life  made  easy  and  secure;  he  is 
carried  comfortably  from  one  hunting  ground  to  another. 
Often,  however,  when  the  time  comes  to  find  food,  it  is  the 
pilot-fish  that  seeks  out  the  provender,  and  prepares  the  ground, 
as  it  were,  for  the  attack  of  the  shark.  Then  they  both  feast, 
and  the  pilot-fish  resumes  his  subordinate  position. 

We  may  shift  the  figure  to  pleasanter  ground  by  grace  of 
Samuel  Butler,  the  Erewhonian.    This  brilliant,  odd  old 

118 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

gentleman,  a  bit  of  a  scientist  as  well*  as  a  literary  man,  had 
a  passion  for  transferring  the  terms  and  conceptions  of  biology 
to  machinery  and  to  man's  social  relationships.  Departing 
from  the  crustaceans,  which  grow  new  legs  or  tails  as  fast 
as  the  old  are  cut  off,  he  said: 

"What  .  .  .  can  be  more  distinct  from  a  man  than  hij 
banker  or  his  solicitor?  Yet  these  are  commonly  so  much 
parts  of  him  that  he  can  no  more  cut  them  off  and  grow  new 
ones  than  he  can  grow  new  legs  or  arms;  neither  must  he 
wound  his  solicitor;  a  wound  in  the  solicitor  is  a  very  serious 
thing.  As  for  his  bank, — failure  of  his  bank's  action  may  be 
as  fatal  to  a  man  as  failure  of  his  heart.  .  ,  .  We  can,  indeed, 
grow  butchers,  bakers,  and  greengrocers,  almost  ad  libitum^ 
•but  these  are  low  developments  and  correspond  to  skin,  hair, 
or  finger  nails." 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  would  be  right  to  say  that  directors 
have  grown  artists  with  great  assiduity  in  the  past  twenty 
years,  or  that  the  greatest  of  the  directors  have  become  as 
closely  associated  with  particular  artists  as  a  well-to-do  Eng- 
lishman is  with  his  banker  or  his  solicitor.  At  any  rate  the 
name  of  Reinhardt  is  intimately  associated  with  the  name  of 
Stern;  Jessner  has  his  Pirchan,  Fehling  his  Strohbach;  I  have 
spoken  of  the  close  relationship  of  Weichert  and  Sievert,  and 
I  could  point  out  similar  identifications  in  America.  An  artist 
of  a  certain  type  has  come  into  a  very  definite,  creative  con- 

119 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 


nection  with  the  art  of  production,  and  he  has  usually  brought 
his  contribution  to  the  theater  of  a  particular  director. 

The  designer  is  a  modern  product.  He  was  unknown  to 
Moliere  or  Shakespeare;  the  tailor  was  their  only  artist.  Ex- 
cept for  incidental  music,  costume  is  the  one  field  in  which 
another  talent  than  that  of  actor  or  director  invaded  the 
theater  from  Greek  days  until  the  last  years  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  There  were  designers  of  scenery  in  the  Renaissance, 
but  they  kept  to  the  court  masques.  Inigo  Jones  would  have 
been  as  astonished  and  as  shocked  as  Shakespeare  if  anybody 
had  suggested  that  he  try  to  work  upon  the  stage  of  the  Globe 
Theater.  The  advent  of  Italian  opera — a  development  easy 
to  trace  from  the  court  masques — and  the  building  of  elaborate 
theaters  to  house  its  scenery,  brought  the  painter  upon  the 
stage.  The  names  of  the  flamboyant  brothers  Galli-Bibiena 
are  the  first  great  names  to  be  met  with  in  the  annals  of  scene 
painting.  And  they  were  the  last  great  names  until  Schinkel, 
the  German  architect,  began  in  the  early  nineteenth  century 
to  seek  a  way  of  ridding  the  stage  of  the  dull  devices  of  the 
current  scene  painters.  Scenery  was  not  an  invention  of  Real- 
ism; it  was  a  much  older  thing.  I  doubt  if  any  one  more 
talented  than  a  good  carpenter  or  an  interior  decorator  was 
needed  to  achieve  the  actuality  which  the  realists  demanded. 
When  artists  of  distinction,  or  designers  with  a  flair  for  the 
theater  appeared  at  the  stage  door,  it  was  because  they  saw 

120 


The  Desert:  a  setting  by  Isaac  Griinewald  from 
the  opera,  Samson  and  Delilah.  A  vista  of  hills 
and  sky,  painted  and  lit  in  tones  of  burning  orange, 
is  broken  at  either  side  by  high,  leaning  walls  of 
harsh  gray  rock.  The  director,  Harald  Andre,  has 
grouped  his  players  so  as  to  continue  the  triangular 
form  of  the  opening  through  which  they  are  seen. 
At  the  Royal  Opera  in  Stockholm. 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

Shakespeare  or  Goethe,  von  Hofmannsthal  or  Maeterlinck 
sending  in  their  cards  to  Irving  or  Reinhardt  or  Stanislavsky. 

Now  what  are  the  relations  that  this  modern  phenomenon 
has  established  with  the  theater  through  the  medium  of  the 
director?  Ordinarily  they  differ  very  much  from  the  attitude 
that  existed  between  the  old-fashioned  scenic  artist  and  the 
director,  and  the  attitude  that  still  exists  in  the  case  of  most 
scenic  studios.  This  is  the  relation  of  shopkeeper  and  buyer. 
The  director  orders  so  many  settings  from  the  studio.  Perhaps 
he  specifies  that  they  are  to  be  arranged  in  this  or  that  fashion, 
though  usually,  if  the  director  hasn't  the  intelligence  to  employ 
a  thoroughly  creative  designer,  he  hasn't  the  interest  to  care 
what  the  setting  is  like  so  long  as  it  has  enough  doors  and  win- 
dows to  satisfy  the  dramatist.  Occasionally  you  find  a  keen, 
modern  director  who,  for  one  reason  or  another,  has  to  employ 
an  artist  of  inferior  quality.  Then  it  is  the  director's  ideas  and 
conceptions  and  even  his  rough  sketches  and  plans  that  are  ex- 
ecuted, not  the  artist's.  In  Stockholm,  for  example,  Har- 
ald  Andre  so  dominates  the  official  scene  painter  of  the  Opera 
,  that  the  settings  for  Macbeth  are  largely  Andre's  in  design 
though  they  are  Thorolf  Jansson's  in  execution.  Even  in  the 
case  of  the  exceptionally  talented  artist,  Isaac  Griinewald,  with 
whom  Andre  associated  himself  for  the  production  of  Samson 
and  'Delilah^  the  director's  ideas  could  dominate  in  certain 
scenes.   For  example,  in  the  beautiful  and  effective  episode  of 

121 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

the  Jews  in  the  desert  which  Andre  injected  into  the  first 
act — a  scene  for  which  the  director  required  a  symbolic  pic- 
ture of  the  fall  of  the  walls  of  Philistia  to  accompany  the 
orchestral  music  which  he  used  for  this  interlude.  The  bril- 
liance with  which  Griinewald  executed  the  conception  may 
be  judged  from  the  accompanying  illustration. 

The  commonest  relationship  of  the  director  and  the  designer 
has  been  cooperative.  The  artist  has  brought  a  scheme  of  pro- 
duction to  the  director  as  often,  perhaps,  as  the  director  has 
brought  such  a  scheme  to  the  artist.  The  director  has  then 
criticized,  revised,  even  amplified  the  artist's  designs,  and  has 
brought  them  to  realization  on  the  stage.  And  the  artist  and 
the  director,  arranging  lights  at  the  final  rehearsals,  have  come 
to  a  last  cooperation  which  may  be  more  important  to  the  play 
than  any  that  has  gone  before. 

You  find,  however,  constant  evidence  of  the  artist  running 
ahead  of  the  director  in  the  creation  of  details  of  production 
which  have  a  large  bearing  on  the  action  as  well  as  on  the 
atmosphere  of  the  play.  Griinewald  brought  a  setting  to  the 
mill  scene  in  Samson  ani  'Delilah  which  was  not  only  strik- 
ingly original  and  dramatic,  but  which  forced  the  direction  into 
a  single  course.  The  usual  arrangement  is  the  flat  millstone 
with  a  long  pole,  against  which  Samson  pushes,  treading  out 
a  large  circle  as  the  stone  revolves.  The  actor  is  always  more 
or  less  visible,  and  there  is  no  particular  impression  of  a  cruel 

122 


Samson  and  Delilah:  the  mill.  A  remarkable  ex- 
ample of  an  essentially  ornamental  theatrical  set- 
ting, designed  by  Isaac  Griinewald  for  the  Royal 
Opera  in  Stockholm.  Black  emptiness.  A  slant- 
ing shaft  of  light  strikes  the  millstone  in  a  vivid 
crescent.  As  the  wheel  travels  in  its  track  this 
crescent  widens  to  a  disk  of  blinding  light,  and 
then  shrinks  again.  The  actual  forms  of  this 
setting  are  sublimated  into  an  arresting  composition 
of  shifting  abstract  shapes  of  light. 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

machine  dominating  a  human  being.  Griinewald  changed  all 
this  by  using  a  primitive  type  of  vertical  millstone.  The 
sketch  shows  the  stage  in  darkness  except  for  one  shaft  of  light 
striking  sideways  across.  The  great  wheel  is  set  well  down 
front  within  a  low  circular  wall.  Along  the  wall  Samson 
walks,  pushing  against  a  short  pole  that  sticks  out  from  the 
center  of  one  face  of  the  high  narrow,  millstone.  As  he 
pushes,  the  stone  swings  about  and  also  revolves.  This  allows 
the  beam  of  light  to  catch  first  a  thin  cresce  it  at  the  top  of 
the  curving  edge  of  the  wheel,  then  a  wider  and  wider  curve, 
until  suddenly,  as  Samson  comes  into  view,  the  light  brings 
out  the  flat  face  of  the  wheel  like  a  full  moon.  Against  this 
the  actor  is  outlined  for  his  aria.  Then,  while  the  orchestra 
plays,  he  pushes  the  wheel  once  more  around.  This  arrange- 
ment is  extraordinarily  fine  as  a  living  picture  and  as  an  ex- 
pression of  the  mood  of  the  scene.  Moreover,  it  is  a  triumph 
for  the  artist,  because  it  is  an  idea  in  direction  as  well  as  setting. 
It  dictates  the  movement  of  the  player  and  manages  it  in  the 
best  possible  way.  No  other  action  for  Samson  is  possible  in 
this  set,  and  no  other  action  could  be  so  appropriate  and 
effective. 

Examples  of  similar  dictation  by  the  artist — though  none  so 
striking — come  to  mind.  In  Frankfort  Sievert  arranged  the 
settings  for  Strindberg's  Towards  Damascus  in  a  way  that  con- 
tributed dramatic  significance  to  the  movement  of  the  players. 

123 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

The  piece  is  in  seventeen  scenes^  it  proceeds  through  eight 
different  settings  to  reach  the  ninth,  a  church,  and  from  the 
ninth  the  hero  passes  back  through  the  eight  in  reverse  order 
until  he  arrives  at  the  spot  where  the  action  began.  Sievert 
saw  an  opportunity  to  use  the  revolving  stage,  as  well  as  ele- 
ments of  design,  in  a  way  interpreting  and  unifying  the  play. 
He  placed  all  nine  scenes  on  the  "revolver,"  and  he  made  the 
acting  floor  of  each  successive  setting  a  little  higher  than  the 
last.  This  results  in  rather  narrow  rooms  and  a  sea  shore 
bounded  by  formal  yellow  walls,  but  it  permits  an  obvious 
unity,  it  shows  visually  the  path  that  the  hero  has  to  follow, 
and  it  symbolizes  his  progress  as  a  steady  upward  movement 
towards  the  church. 

The  artist  dictating  a  particular  kind  of  direction  is  obvious 
enough  in  Ghout  {Le  Boujfon)^  the  fantastic  comic  ballet  by 
Prokofieff  which  Gontcharova  designed  for  the  Ballets  Russes. 
Gontcharova's  settings  are  not  particularly  good,  but  at  least 
they  have  a  definite  and  individual  character.  They  are  ex- 
pressionist after  a  fashion  related  more  or  less  to  Cubism.  They 
present  Russian  scenes  in  wildly  distorted  perspective.  Log 
houses  and  wooden  fences  shatter  the  backdrop  in  a  war  of 
serried  timbers.  A  table  is  painted  on  a  wing,  the  top  tipping 
up  at  an  alarming  angle,  one  plate  drawn  securely  upon  it, 
and  another,  of  papier-mache y  pinned  to  it.  All  this  sort  of 
thing  enjoined  upon  the  regisseur  a  kind  of  direction  quite 

124 


The  first  scene  of  Tchehoff's  Uncle  Vanya.  Here 
Pitoefir  indicates  a  Russian  country  side  by  a  rustic 
bench  and  slender  birch  trees  formally  spaced 
against  a  flat  gray  curtain. 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

as  bizarre,  mannered^  and  comic.  Chout  seems  to  have  had 
no  direction  at  all  in  any  creative  sense.  The  regisseur  failed 
to  meet  the  challenge  of  the  artist. 

It  is  ordinarily  very  hard  to  say  what  share  the  artist  or  the 
director  has  had  in  the  scheme  of  a  setting,  or  whether  the 
director  has  bothered  his  head  at  all  about  the  setting  after 
confiding  it  to  what  he  considers  competent  hands.  It  is  an 
interesting  speculation  just  how  much  the  physical  shape  of 
Reinhardt's  productions  has  been  the  sole  creation  of  his  artist, 
Stern.  Certainly  Stern  delighted  in  the  problems  which  the 
use  of  the  revolving  stage  presented,  and  only  in  a  single  mind 
could  the  complexities  of  these  sets,  nesting  together  like  some 
cut-out  puzzle,  be  organized  to  a  definite  end.  It  is  entirely 
possible  that,  except  for  a  conference  on  the  general  tone  of 
the  production,  and  criticisms  of  the  scheme  devised  by  Stern, 
Reinhardt  may  have  given  no  thought  at  all  to  the  scenery. 
Stern  was  a  master  in  his  own  line,  and  for  Rinehardt  there 
was  always  the  thing  he  delighted  most  in,  the  emotional  mood 
produced  by  the  voices  and  movements  of  the  actors.  His 
carelessness  of  detail  even  in  the  acting,  suggests  that  for  him 
there  were  only  the  biggest  moments,  the  important  elements 
and  climaxes,  that  put  over  the  emotion  of  the  play. 

Sometimes  artist  and  director  are  the  same,  as  with  Pitoeff 
in  Geneva  and  Paris,  or  with  Knut  Strom  in  Gothenburg.  In 
such  a  case  setting,  direction,  and  acting  are  one.    But  ordi- 

125 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

narily  there  is  a  division  of  responsibility,  and  an  opportunity 
for  the  artist  to  play  a  part  in  the  production  of  a  drama  far 
more  important  than  Bibiena's.  Just  how  important  it  may 
prove  to  be  is  bound  up,  I  think,  with  the  future  of  the  theater 
as  a  physical  thing,  and  with  the  temperament  of  the  artist. 
Working  as  a  designer  of  picture-settings,  the  artist  can  only 
suggest  action,  but  not  dictate  it,  through  the  shapes  and  atmos- 
pheres he  creates.  The  important  thing  is  that  almost  all  the 
designers  of  real  distinction  in  Europe  are  tending  steadily 
away  from  the  picture-setting.  They  are  constantly  at  work 
upon  plans  for  breaking  down  the  proscenium-frame  type  of 
production,  and  for  reaching  a  simple  platform  stage  or  podium 
upon  which  the  actor  shall  present  himself  frankly  as  an 
actor.  This  means,  curiously  enough,  that  the  designers  of 
scenery  are  trying  to  eliminate  scenery,  to  abolish  their  vocation. 
And  this  in  turn  should  indicate  that  the  artist  has  his  eye  on 
something  else  besides  being  an  artist. 

The  director  who  works  in  such  a  new  theater  as  the  artists 
desire — in  the  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna,  for  example, — requires 
an  artist  to  work  with  him  who  sees  art  in  terms  of  the  arrange- 
ment of  action  upon  steps,  and  against  properties  or  screens. 
This  is  ordinarily  the  business  of  the  director  in  our  picture- 
frame  theater;  with  the  work  of  the  artist  enchantingly  visible 
in  the  setting  behind  the  actors,  the  director  can  get  away  rea- 
sonably well  with  the  esthetic  problems  of  the  relations  of 

126 


A  scene  from  Grabbe's  Nafoleon.  The  Place  de 
Greve  in  Paris  is  indicated  by  a  great  street  lamp  set 
boldly  on  a  raised  platform  in  the  center  of  the 
stage.  A  Jessner  production  designed  by  Cesar 
Klein. 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

actors  and  furniture  and  of  actors  and  actors.  Nobody  notes 
his  shortcomings  in  this  regard.  Put  him  upon  an  almost  naked 
stage,  and  he  must  not  only  make  his  actors  far  more  expres- 
sive in  voice  and  feature,  but  he  must  also  do  fine  things 
with  their  bodies  and  their  meager  surroundings.  This  is  far 
easier  for  a  pictorial  artist  than  for  the  director,  who  is  usually 
an  actor  without  a  well-trained  eye.  The  director  must  there- 
fore employ  an  artist  even  in  the  sceneryless  theater,  and  employ 
him  to  do  what  is  really  a  work  of  direction.  The  two  must 
try  to  fuse  their  individualities  and  abilities,  and  bring  out  a 
composite  director-artist,  a  double  man  possessing  the  talents 
that  appear  together  in  Pitoeff . 

The  immediate  question  is  obviously  this:  If  the  director 
cannot  acquire  the  talents  of  the  artist,  why  cannot  the  artist 
acquire  the  talents  of  the  director?  If  the  knack  of  visual 
design,  and  the  keen  appreciation  of  physical  relationships  can- 
not be  cultivated  in  a  man  who  does  not  possess  them  by  birth, 
is  it  likewise  impossible  for  the  man  who  possesses  them  to 
acquire  the  faculty  of  understanding  and  of  drawing  forth 
emotion  in  the  actor? 

The  problem  narrows  down  to  the  temperament  of  the  artist 
versus  the  temperament  of  the  director.  There  is  a  difference  j 
it  is  no  use  denying  it.  The  director  is  ordinarily  a  man  sensi- 
tive enough  to  understand  human  emotion  deeply  and  to  be 
able  to  recognize  it,  summon  it,  and  guide  it  in  actors.   But  he 

127 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

must  also  be  callous  enough  to  meet  the  contacts  of  direction 
— often  very  difficult  contacts — and  to  organize  not  only  the 
performance  of  the  players,  but  also  a  great  deal  of  bothersome 
detail  involving  men  and  women  who  must  be  managed  and 
cajoled,  commanded,  and  worn  down,  and  generally  treated 
as  no  artist  cares  to  treat  others,  or  to  treat  himself  in  the  proc- 
ess of  treating  others.  The  director  must  be  an  executive, 
and  this  implies  a  cold  ability  to  dominate  other  human  beings, 
which  the  artist  does  not  ordinarily  have.  The  artist  is  essen- 
tially a  lonely  worker.    He  is  not  gregarious  in  his  labor. 

So  far  as  the  future  goes,  the  hope  for  the  artist  is  that  he 
will  be  able  to  reverse  the  Butlerian  process  which  held  in  the 
relations  of  director  and  designer.  He  must  be  able  to  "grow  a 
director."  This  may  not  be  so  very  difficult.  It  may  very  well 
happen  that  an  artist  will  employ  a  stage  manager,  as  an  astute 
director  now  employs  an  artist,  to  do  a  part  of  his  work  for  him. 
He  will  explain  to  the  stage  manager  the  general  scheme  of 
production  that  he  wants,  much  as  a  director  explains  to  an 
artist  the  sort  of  settings  he  desires.  The  stage  manager  will 
rehearse  the  movements  of  the  actors  towards  this  end.  When 
the  artist  sees  opportunities  for  further  development  of  action 
and  business,  he  will  explain  this  to  the  stage  manager,  and  per- 
haps to  the  players  involved,  and  the  stage  manager  will  again 
see  that  the  ideas  of  his  superior  are  carried  out.  Something 
of  the  kind  occurs  even  now  where  a  director  employs  a  sub- 

128 


The  first  scene  from  Othello  as  staged  by  Leopold 
Jessner  in  Berlin.  On  long  curved  steps  which 
remain  throughout,  and  against  the  neutral  back- 
ground of  the  cyclorama,  the  artist,  Emil  Pirchan, 
puts  the  barest  indications  of  place.  Here,  Braban- 
tio's  house  gleams  like  a  moonstone  against  a  back- 
ground of  neutral-tinted  distance. 


THE  ARTIST  AS  DIRECTOR 

director  to  "break  in"  the  company.  Both  Reinhardt  and 
Arthur  Hopkins,  though  thoroughly  capable  of  "wading  into" 
a  group  of  players,  and  enforcing  action  by  minute  direction 
and  imitation,  generally  use  the  quiet  method  of  consulting 
with  players,  and  suggesting  changes  to  them,  not  during  the 
actual  rehearsal,  but  afterwards  in  the  protection  of  a  wing 
or  the  privacy  of  a  dressing  room. 

The  presence  of  the  artist  as  director  in  some  future  theater 
without  scenery,  implies  a  decided  influence  on  the  type  of 
acting. 

Such  a  stage  itself,  thrust  boldly  at  the  spectators,  if  not 
actually  placed  in  the  midst  of  them,  tends  to  dictate  a  frank, 
direct  contact  between  players  and  audience.  In  such  a  house 
an  actor  will  be  all  but  forced  to  desert  the  purely  representa- 
tional style  of  to-day,  and  to  present  himself  and  his  emotions 
in  an  open,  assertive,  masculine  manner  as  objects  of  art 
and  of  emotion. 

The  tendency  of  the  artist  towards  this  kind  of  theater  im- 
plies, I  think,  a  tendency  towards  presentational  acting.  Cer- 
tainly I  have  talked  with  few  who  were  not  receptive  to  it. 

Put  together  a  stage  that  tends  towards  presentational  acting 
and  an  artist  whose  instincts  run  to  the  same  ends,  and  the  out- 
come is  not  difficult  to  foresee. 

The  problem  at  present  is,  what  artist?  And  where?  And 
how  soon? 

129 


CHAPTER  XI 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 


T 


HE  outstanding  director  in  the  German  theater  to- 
day is  also  the  most  radical  director.    And  the  most 


radical  director  is  at  the  head  of  the  Prussian  State 
Theater,  the  Schauspielhaus,  in  Berlin.  His  name  is  Leopold 
Jessner,  and  he  is  the  only  man  who  has  threatened  to  fill  the 
place  made  vacant  by  Reinhardt's  retirement.  Some  say  that 
he  has  already  filled  it,  and — ^with  disarming  logic — that 
Reinhardt  was  only  a  mountebank  anyhow.  Some  think  Jess- 
ner  a  clever  eccentric.  Certainly  he  is  the  most  discussed 
personality  in  the  German  theater,  and  his  methods  are  the 
most  debated. 

One  word  crops  up  whenever  his  name  is  mentioned — 
Tessnertreppen.  The  German  language  has  boiled  down  into 
a  single  word  an  idea  that  we  would  have  to  phrase  as  "those 
crazy  steps  of  Leopold  Jessner."  It  makes  a  handy  stone  for 
the  anti-Jessnerites  to  throw  at  the  director's  friends.  Jessner's 
friends  are  beginning  to  have  the  good  sense  to  pick  up  the 
stone  and 'throw  it  back.  For  the  word  Jessnertreppen  hits  off 
a  virtue — perhaps,  the  main  virtue  of  the  man. 

Jessner  fills  his  stage  with  steps.    He  seems  unable  to  get 


130 


Othello:  act  III,  scene  3.  A  towering  column, 
with  its  lower  end  sharpened  like  the  point  of  a 
lead  pencil,  is  seemingly  driven  into  one  end  of  the 
central  platform.  Othello  and  lago  stand  at  the 
base. 

lAGo:  Have  you  not  sometimes  seen  a  handkerchief 
Spotted   with  strawberries   in  your  wife's 
hands? 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

along  without  them.  He  must  have  platforms,  levels,  walls, 
terraces.  They  are  to  him  what  screens,  towering  shapes, 
great  curtains  are  to  Gordon  Craig.  In  every  production  Jess- 
ner,  through  his  artist,  Emil  Pirchan,  provides  some  permanent 
foundation  besides  the  stage-iloor  for  the  actor  to  play  upon, 
some  arrangement  of  different  levels.  In  his  Richard  III  it  is 
a  wall  all  across  the  stage,  with  a  platform  along  the  top  at 
the  base  of  another  wall,  and  for  certain  scenes  a  flight  of 
steps  like  a  pyramid  placed  against  the  lower  wall.  In  Othello 
Jessner  uses  two  platforms,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  each 
reached  by  two  or  three  steps,  the  lower  a  long  ellipse  almost 
as  large  as  the  stage,  the  upper  one  smaller  and  proportionately 
broader 5  upon  the  upper  platform  Jessner  places  certain  indi- 
cations of  setting.  For  Grabbe's  Napoleon  he  uses  four  or  five 
steps  rising  sharply  to  a  platform  perhaps  four  feet  high. 
Sometimes  this  platform  is  supplemented  by  a  high  one  pulled 
apart  in  the  middle  to  make  opposing  hills,  redoubts,  vantage 
points  in  the  battle  scenes. 

The  Jessnertreppen  are  the  key  to  the  physical  things  in 
this  director's  productions.  They  give  the  stage  one  general 
shape  for  each  play.  They  establish  a  formal  quality.  They 
tend  to  banish  representation  in  scenery,  since  only  indications 
of  setting  harmonize  with  their  frank  artificiality.  And — 
their  main  purpose — they  provide  the  director  with  most  in- 
teresting opportunities  for  manoeuvering  his  actors. 

131 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

One  of  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  of  these  is  a  new  way 
of  making  entrances.  Such  steps  as  are  used  in  Othello  and 
Napoleon  go  down  at  the  back  as  far  as  they  rise  in  the  front, 
and  below  that  the  director  opens  a  trap  or  two  in  the  floor. 
Thus  he  is  able  to  have  an  actor  walk  straight  up  out  of  the 
back  of  the  stage,  and  appear  in  a  dominating  position  in  the 
middle  of  the  action.  Jessner  uses  this  novel  means  of  entrance 
again  and  again  in  Othello^  and  it  is  always  fresh  and  effective. 
For  the  return  to  Cyprus  the  Moor  marches  triumphantly  up 
these  steps,  to  the  welcome  of  his  wife. 

Far  more  important,  however,  is  what  Jessner  does  with 
the  front  of  the  steps.  They  may  be  there  to  help  a  formal 
stage  with  very  little  scenery  to  seem  steadily  interesting  even 
to  audiences  that  expect  the  conventional  gauds  of  the 
theater.  But  their  true  office  is  to  make  possible  a  sort  of  three- 
dimensional  direction  for  which  Jessner  has  become  renowned. 
Ordinarily  the  actor  moves  in  only  two  directions  upon  the 
stage — right  and  left,  and  towards  the  footlights  and  away 
from  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  latter  movement  is  so 
unsatisfactory  from  the  point  of  view  of  any  spectators  except 
those  in  the  balconies,  that  the  actor  really  has  only  one  plane 
in  which  he  can  move  visibly  and  expressively.  Jessner  does 
more  than  add  a  third  dimension  when  he  sends  his  actors  up 
and  down  the  steps.  He  also  gives  a  great  deal  more  sig- 
nificance to  the  movement  towards  and  away  from  the  audience. 

132 


Othello:  act  4,  scene  2.  Cyprus.  The  castle. 
On  the  central  platform  are  set  two  curved  screens 
of  dull  salmon  pink.  Behind,  the  quivering  dark- 
ness of  the  unlighted  cyclorama.  Emilia,  dressed 
in  deep  crimson,  stands  in  the  foreground. 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

Beside  the  sense  of  movement — always  an  intriguing  thing 
in  the  theater — Jessner  provides  in  his  steps  a  mechanism 
for  solving  many  dramatic  problems.  His  actors  do  not  spend 
their  time  getting  out  of  the  way  of  the  actors  behind  them. 
They  are  not  shuttling  back  and  forth  in  an  effort  to  let  the 
audience  see  all  the  players  at  the  same  time.  One  actor  can- 
not "cover"  another  if  he  stands  on  steps.  Even  a  very  large 
crowd  can  appear  on  such  a  stage  without  the  individual  speak- 
ers being  lost.  As  Lee  Simonson  showed  in  his  use  of  different 
levels  for  the  Theater  Guild's  production  of  He  Who  Gets 
Slapped^  with  the  proper  sort  of  elevations  on  the  stage  a 
large  number  of  actors  can  play  a  very  complicated  scene  with- 
out confusing  their  relationships  or  assuming  awkward  posi- 
tions. 

But  a  great  deal  more  important  than  this  negative  virtue  is 
the  positive  contribution  of  steps  in  permitting  many  more  and 
much  finer  compositions  than  the  flat  floor  permits.  Jessner 
composes  freely  in  three  dimensions.  He  composes  both  for 
esthetic  and  for  dramatic  effect. 

There  are  times  when  you  can  see  him  arranging  his  actors 
with  nothing  but  the  esthetic  aim  in  mind.  Take  the  first 
scene  in  which  Napoleon  himself  appears  in  Grabbers  drama. 
It  is  not  a  particularly  good  setting  in  some  ways  5  it  is  a  rather 
obvious  and  ugly  silhouette  of  a  bastion  and  a  slanting  parapet 
leading  up  to  it.   The  scene  shows  Napoleon  receiving  reports 

133 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

from  an  officer  and  giving  orders.  Jessner  deliberately  places 
Napoleon  on  top  of  the  bastion  against  the  sky  and  stands  the 
officer  stiffly  on  the  parapet  below  j  the  relation  of  the  two 
men  as  characters  in  the  play  is  thus  established  visually  as 
well  as  through  the  text.  The  relation  of  the  two  men  as  a 
composition — not  as  characters — has  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
entrance  of  a  second  officer.  It  is  obviously  impossible  for 
Napoleon  and  the  first  officer  both  to  retain  their  positions  if 
the  second  officer  is  to  fit  into  a  composition.  Accordingly  the 
first  moves  just  enough  to  establish  a  new  esthetic  relation 
embracing  all  three. 

Jessner  is  free  with  his  dramatic  compositions  and  occa- 
sionally altogether  too  obvious.  He  keeps  his  dominant  people 
at  the  top  of  the  Jessnertrepfetiy  or  brings  them  down  as  they 
lose  command.  He  handles  the  accession  of  Richard  III  as 
Shakespeare  did,  and  as  very  few  directors  have  since  done. 
When  the  burghers  come  to  ask  Richard  to  be  king,  they  find 
him  "aloft,  between  two  bishops,"  in  compliance  with  Buck- 
ingham's advice:  "Go,  go  up  to  the  leads."  Jessner  has  Rich- 
ard walk  upon  the  platform  above  the  wall^  it  is  his  first 
appearance  on  high  and  he  maintains  his  place  until  the  battle 
at  the  end.  At  the  close  of  Napoleon^  the  emperor,  who  has 
appeared  hitherto  only  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  is  seen  seated, 
broken  and  disconsolate,  on  the  lowest  step  of  all,  with  a  sink- 
ing sun  behind  him,  and  the  soldiers  above, 

134 


Othello:  act  4,  scene  2.  lago  lurks  in  the  shadow 
of  a  great  black  shape  distorted  like  the  trunk  of 
some  fantastic  tree.  Cassio  pursues  Roderigo 
along  a  narrow  path  which  skirts  the  base  of  the 
cyclorama;  you  see  their  running  figures,  far 
away  and  small. 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

It  would  seem  safe  to  infer  from  all  this  that  Jessner  is 
not  a  realistic  producer.  He  might,  of  course,  have  achieved 
many  of  these  effects  within  a  natural  setting,  but  only  at  the 
cost  of  a  great  deal  of  laborious  planning  and  manoeuvering. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jessner  doesn't  use  one  ounce  of  energy  try- 
ing to  be  either  natural  or  plausible.  His  method  is  openly 
expressionistic. 

Jessner  distorts  the  natural  in  a  hundred  ways  to  achieve 
something  expressive  of  the  drama.  The  first  scene  in  Napo- 
leoUy  as  he  gives  it,  is  supposed  according  to  the  text  to  pass  in 
the  arcades  of  the  Palais  Royal,  lined  with  booths.  Various 
episodes,  dialogues,  and  harangues  take  place  between  different 
speakers  and  different  knots  of  the  crowd.  The  usual  method 
of  handling  such  a  scene  is  to  turn  on  and  off  the  speech  of 
the  different  groups  of  actors  at  will,  making  certain  speakers 
and  parts  of  the  crowd  obligingly  inaudible  to  the  audience. 
There  is  little  enough  of  nature  in  such  a  business,  but  Jessner 
banishes  even  that.  He  keeps  the  stage  empty  except  for  small 
crowds  that  rush  out,  along  with  the  speakers  or  show-barkers, 
for  particular  episodes. 

Jessner  handles  crowds  even  more  arbitrarily  at  times.  Later 
in  Nafoleofiy  during  a  riot  preceding  the  news  of  Napoleon's 
return  from  exile,  a  revolutionist  kills  a  tailor.  As  his  body 
sinks  to  the  steps,  the  crowd  of  red-clothed  men  and  women 
falls  upon  him,  almost  as  if  to  devour  the  corpse,  and  covers  the 

135 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

steps  as  with  a  great  blood-red  stain.  In  Richard  III,  when 
Gloucester  appears  as  king  in  a  red  cloak  upon  the  top  of 
the  red  steps,  which  are  placed  for  this  purpose  against  the 
wallj  his  eight  retainers,  also  in  red,  sink  down  in  a  heap 
below  him  like  a  pile  of  bloody  skulls.  In  Othelloy  when  the 
Moor  returns  in  triumph  to  Cyprus  a  cheering  crowd  comes 
with  him  up  the  steps  from  the  back.  When  he  has  reached 
the  top  and  can  go  no  higher,  the  crowd  sinks  prostrate.  For 
a  moment  he  seems  to  grow  in  stature,  and  his  triumph  to 
tower  upward. 

These  are  all  compositions  in  three  dimensions,  as  well  as 
violations  of  ordinary  human  conduct.  Jessner  can  also  create 
symbolic  action  out  of  unnatural  action  without  any  particular 
aid  from  the  steps.  The  scene  of  Napoleon's  entrance  into  the 
throne  room  of  Louis  XVIII  is  an  interesting  example.  The 
steps  give  prominence  to  the  throne,  and  enable  the  audience 
to  see  better  j  but  Jessner's  symbolism  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  steps.  The  scene  is  made  up  of  some  curtains  masking 
each  side,  two  wings  cut  in  rococo  curves  and  ornamented 
with  lilies  in  rococo  patterns.  A  flat  backdrop  of  the  same 
design  and  colors — not  a  very  good  design  or  very  French  colors 
— completes  the  room.  In  this  room  in  an  earlier  scene  Louis 
has  held  audience,  a  fat,  yellow-and-white  egg  of  a  man,  like 
some  Humpty-Dumpty  caught  in  a  flood  of  the  fierce  white 
light  that  is  supposed  to  beat  about  a  throne,  and  all  too  seldom 

136 

i 
i 


The  prison  scene  from  Richard  III.  A  triangular 
patch  of  light  discloses  a  low  arched  opening  in 
the  nearer  wall  of  the  permanent  setting  where 
Clarence  sits  in  chains. 

clarence:  Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps 
of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels.  .  .  . 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

does  anything  of  the  kind.  But  now  Louis  is  gone,  and  the 
lilies  of  the  wall  are  shadowed  by  curtains  of  Napoleonic  blue, 
which  have,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  got  themselves 
hung  in  the  room.  Napoleon  enters  through  the  gap  in  the 
curtains,  reaches  up,  seizes  the  edge  of  one  of  them,  and  pulls 
it  down  over  the  glory  that  was  Bourbon.  Then  he  turns  and 
faces  the  audience  while  two  files  of  soldiers  march  stiffly  past 
him  to  the  opposite  side  from  which  each  entered.  The  ges- 
ture to  the  curtains,  and  the  staccato  march  of  the  soldiers  back 
of  Napoleon,  set  out  the  drama  of  his  returning  power. 

Naturally  Shakespeare,  even  more  than  Grabbe,  gives  Jess- 
ner  exceptional  opportunities  to  symbolize  and  formalize  in 
direction.  He  is  quick  to  seize  them — particularly  in  the  solilo- 
quies. He  begins  Richard  III  with  Gloucester  speaking  to 
the  audience  as  Prologue;  he  ends  it  with  Richmond  as  Epi- 
logue. Jessner  always  flings  asides  directly  at  the  spectators. 
When  he  comes  upon  soliloquies — as  in  Brakenbury's  musings 
after  Clarence  has  fallen  asleep  in  his  cell — he  cuts  them  off 
sharply  from  the  previous  action  by  altering  the  lighting,  and 
bringing  the  actor  down-stage  to  speak  full  at  the  audience. 
He  places  the  murderers  squatting  on  the  prompter's  box  for 
much  of  their  chatter.  He  has  the  scrivener  read  Hastings' 
condemnation  to  the  audience  from  the  same  vantage  point, 
and  upon  this  relic,  in  poses  fashioned  a  little  after  Rodin's 
Burghers  of  Calais^  he  places  the  three  citizens  who  discourse 

137 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

of  the  old  king's  death  and  the  sorry  state  of  the  realm. 

Jessner  is  quite  as  arbitrary  in  his  handling  of  light  as  in 
his  handling  of  people.  He  does  not  use  light  merely  to  illu- 
mine the  stage,  as  directors  did  thirty  years  ago.  He  does  not 
use  light  and  shadow  merely  to  define  action  by  making  faces 
and  figures  more  dynamic,  as  Appia  set  modern  producers 
doing.  He  uses  light  and  shadow  as  a  parallel  expression  to  the 
play.  Light  and  shadow  act  the  drama  almost  as  much  as  do 
the  players.  The  light  is  not  in  the  least  "natural."  It  suits 
the  mood  of  the  scene.  It  waxes  and  wanes  with  the  progress 
or  the  action.  When  the  little  princes  enter  in  Richard  III 
the  light  shines  out  more  brightly.  When  Othello  dies,  it 
grows  dim,  then  a  sharp  shaft  of  light  shoots  out  from  the 
prompter's  box,  and  throws  the  shadow  of  lago  over  the  trag- 
edy he  has  caused,  and  the  shadow  of  the  great  canopied  bed 
spreads  out  over  the  cyclorama,  which  has  stood  as  a  sort  of 
limit  of  space  about  the  play.  Jessner  is  particularly  fond 
of  shadows.  When  one  rival  meets  another  and  vanquishes 
him,  Jessner  will  have  him  literally  "throw  him  into  the 
shade."  Spotlights,  flashing  on,  create  meaningful  shadows. 
An  amusing  example  occurs  in  the  soliloquy  of  Richard  ending: 

Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass, 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass. 


138 


Richard  III :  Gloucester  and  his  shadow.    A  high 
green-gray  wall  extends  straight  across  the  stage; 
in  front,  a  lower  wall.     As  Gloucester  speaks, 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass, 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass, 

a  spotlight  concealed  in  the  prompter's  box  is  sud- 
denly turned  on  and  his  shadow  looms  up,  huge 
and  sinister. 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

As  Richard  says  this,  the  lights  on  the  stage  go  down,  and  a 
spotlight  from  the  prompter's  box  throws  his  humped  shadow- 
on  the  wall. 

Jessner  has  his  players  under  unusual  control,  and  he  per- 
mits very  little  of  the  accidental  expression  of  feeling  which 
Gordon  Craig  inveighs  against  in  the  actor.  He  even  forbids 
the  little  shiftings  and  motions  of  the  hands  which  are  nat- 
ural to  anybody,  actor  or  layman,  while  listening  to  a  long 
speech  from  another.  Jessner's  actors,  if  they  are  not  speak- 
ing, and  if  their  emotions  are  not  being  very  markedly  played 
upon,  are  held  motionless.  They  do  not  move  a  limb.  I 
have  heard  that,  in  a  ball  room  scene,  Jessner  kept  dozens  of 
players  absolutely  immobile  in  the  poses  of  the  dance  while 
the  two  principals  talked. 

Jessner's  company,  as  it  appears  in  Richard  III^  Napoleon^ 
and  Othello^  displays  no  extraordinary  talent.  The  director 
has  instilled  a  vitality  as  sharp  as  the  silence  and  immobility 
which  he  frequently  demands;  and  they  play  with  that  drive 
and  that  sharpness  of  accent  which  are  inherently  German. 
But  there  is  no  genius  here,  no  Moissi. 

Fritz  Kortner,  who  plays  Richard  and  Othello,  is  the  out- 
standing figure,  but  he  seems  a  player  of  limited  vision  and 
not  very  great  technical  range.  He  plays  both  parts  on  the 
same  two  notes:  a  soft,  precise,  and  almost  whispering  voice, 
and  another  that  rasps  and  all  but  squalls.    Both  are  a  little 

139 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

monotonous  in  tempo  and  accent.  He  uses  the  voice  of  the 
dove  a  great  deal  in  Othello^  both  to  establish  the  Moor's  kind 
and  noble  nature,  and  also  as  a  base  upon  which  to  rear  the 
contrast  of  his  anger.    The  dove  is  a  serpent  in  Richard, 

Physically,  Kortner's  Richard  is  odd  and  striking.  I'he 
actor  is  not  very  tall,  and  he  is  decidedly  thick  in  figure.  His 
attitudes,  the  apelike  swing  of  his  arms,  his  pudgy  face,  twisted 
by  an  evil  grin,  give  him  an  odd  appearance  that  constantly 
suggests  other  images  than  Richard  himself.  A  humped  toad, 
a  fat,  cross  monkey,  a  grinning  Japanese  mask,  the  mask  of 
a  Greek  comedian — finally  the  truth  strikes  home:  it  is  the 
Balzac  of  Rodin. 

There  is  a  moment  in  Richard  when  this  curious  figure  is 
forgotten.  It  is  the  dream  of  the  king  the  night  before  the 
battle  of  Bosworth  Field.  (Why  is  it,  by  the  way,  that  no 
producer  seems  to  have  the  genius  and  naivete  to  produce  this 
scene  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it,  to  place  the  tents  of  Richard 
and  of  Richmond  on  either  side  of  the  stage,  and  to  let  the 
ghosts  bless  Richmond  and  curse  Richard  alternately  as  they 
do  in  the  text?)  Jessner  shears  away  the  blessings,  and  lets 
the  ghosts  curse  in  the  wings.  Upon  the  slant  of  the  blood- 
red  steps  lies  Richard  sleeping.  As  the  voices  call,  he  writhes 
and  twists  upon  his  uneasy  couch.  The  voices  rise  and  race, 
his  agitation  grows  more  and  more  horrible,  until  at  the  end 
his  humped  body  is  beating  a  fearsome  tattoo  to  the  rhythm  of 

140 


Richard  III :  Gloucester  becomes  King.  Robed  in 
scarlet,  he  stands  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  blood- 
red  steps.  Below  him,  a  double  row  of  kneeling, 
scarlet-clad  courtiers.  Behind,  a  high  gray  wall. 
Above,  a  blood-red  sky. 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

the  cursing  ghostly  voices.  Immediately  after  this  really  effec- 
tive and  fine  scene,  comes  the  extraordinary,  much  talked  of 
and  quite  ludicrous  end  of  Richard.  He  has  his  scene  with 
the  generals,  then  goes  off  to  battle — or  is  it  merely  to  tear  off 
his  coat  of  mail  and  his  shirt?  At  any  rate  he  is  on  the 
stage  a  few  moments  later,  staggering  along  the  top  of  the 
wall,  naked  to  the  waist.  He  cries:  "A  horse!  a  horse! 
my  kingdom  for  a  horse!''  Then  he  mounts  his  sword  and, 
as  if  on  a  hobby  horse,  hops  down  the  steps  until  exhaustion 
overcomes  him  and  he  falls. 

Perhaps  this  indicates  the  fault  that  at  present  keeps  Jessner 
from  being  a  great  director.  His  judgment  and  his  taste — 
which  mean  the  soul  with  which  he  interprets  and  animates 
his  work — are  very,  very  faulty.  There  is  no  austerity  and 
almost  no  true  beauty  in  his  Othello^  only  strength.  There  is 
no  dignity  in  his  Richard  Illy  only  horror.  He  has  made 
Richard  terrible,  but  only  with  the  terror  of  wormy  grave- 
yards. There  is  nothing  of  1 5th  century  England  in  it,  none 
of  the  beauty  and  flash  of  the  time  to  make  the  hideousness  of 
Gloucester  the  darker.  The  play  is  drowned  in  black — dirty, 
mean  black.  Far  worse,  it  is  stripped  of  the  qualities  that  are 
Shakespeare.  Worst  of  all,  there  is  no  shred  of  poetry  in  the 
whole  length  of  the  production,  unless  it  is  the  final  moment. 

If  you  can  forget  the  question  of  taste — if  you  do  not  care 
what  interpretation  a  man  puts  on  a  great  work  of  art — you 

141 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

must  admit  Jessner  to  a  very  high  place  as  a  director.  He  has 
originality,  ingenuity,  bravery,  an  uncommon  technical  ability. 
He  is  industrious,  and  indefatigably  careful.  His  sins  are  not 
the  sins  of  Reinhardt.  No  detail  escapes  himj  so  small  a  thing 
as  off-stage  noise  he  handles  with  the  greatest  skill.  But  Jess- 
ner is  no  poet. 

With  the  question  of  taste  goes  also  another  fault,  not  so 
grave,  yet  important  and  perhaps  significant.  Jessner  appears 
to  worship  the  obvious,  to  believe  that  the  theater  is  a  place  of 
A.  B.  C.  impressions  and  reactions.  He  is  daring  enough  in 
his  technique  but  not  in  his  ideas.  He  flings  out  symbols  right 
and  left,  but  they  are  the  symbols  of  the  primer.  He  directs  in 
words  of  one  syllable.  Richard  III  is  an  explanation  in  black 
and  white,  which  occasionally  ventures  to  lisp  in  white  and 
red.  Richard  begins  the  play  in  black  against  a  black  curtain, 
speaking  the  soliloquy  of  "Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discon- 
tent.'^ Richmond  ends  it  in  white  against  a  white  curtain 
with  his  speech  to  Stanley  and  his  soldiers  converted  into  a 
soliloquy  to  the  audience.  The  troops  of  Richard  are  red- 
clothed  figures  crossing  the  red  steps.  The  troops  of  Rich- 
mond cross  it  in  white.  This  is  symbolism  in  baby-talk,  pres- 
entational production  in  kindergarten  terms.  It  is  not  impos- 
sible that  an  audience  is  up  to  more  than  that. 

It  may  be,  of  course,  that  Jessner  is  feeling  his  way  and  that 
to-morrow  he  will  venture  upon  subtlety — if  it  is  in  him.  At 

142 


Richard  III :  on  the  blood-red  steps  of  Richard's 
coronation  stands  Richmond,  a  white-robed  gen- 
eral at  the  head  of  an  army  all  in  white. 


A  NEW  ADVENTURE  IN  DIRECTION 

^ny  rate,  here  is  a  presentational  director,  a  man  who  forswears 
resemblance  and  the  picture  frame,  and  who  sets  actors  and 
their  movements,  the  setting  and  its  lights,  talking  directly  to 
the  audience.  This  is  an  advance  in  the  methods  of  production 
which  makes  the  new  movement  of  twenty  years  ago  look  like 
an  afternoon  stroll,  a  revolt  which  makes  that  much-hailed 
revolution  seem  a  pleasant  little  excursion.  It  is  an  advance 
and  a  revolt,  however,  still  looking  for  a  leader. 


143 


CHAPTER  XII 


MASSE-MENSCH— MOB-MAN 

PROPHECY  is  a  nsky  business  in  the  theater,  especially 
when  prophecy  concerns  itself  with  personalities  rather 
than  tendencies.  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  bring  my- 
self to  say  that  the  man  who  will  become  the  leader  of  the  new 
forces  in  the  Continental  theater  is  Jiirgen  Fehling,  director  of 
Masse-Mensch,  And  yet — on  the  basis  of  a  single  production 
— the  temptation  to  believe  something  of  the  kind  is  strong  in- 
deed. 

Fehling's  work  is  closely  associated  with  two  striking  phe- 
nomena. One  is  the  Volksbuhne,  the  workingman's  theatrical 
organization  of  Berlin,  which  maintains  the  handsomest  and 
best  devised  theater  in  the  German  capital;  and  the  other  is 
the  play  which  has  been  given  there  with  such  uncommon  suc- 
cess, Masse-Menschy  a  strange  and  powerful  tragedy  of  the 
"social  revolution  of  the  twentieth  century''  written  by  a  com- 
munist leader,  Ernst  Toller. 

The  Berlin  Volksbiihne  is  interesting  enough  in  itself. 
As  the  only  organization  that  has  been  able  to  produce  success- 
fully this  expressionist  tragedy  of  communism,  its  power  and 

144 


The  first  moment  of  Jessner's  Richard  III. 
Gloucester,  a  grotesque,  twisted  figure  in  black, 
stands  silhouetted  against  a  black  curtain.  In  con- 
trast to  this  Richmond  speaks  the  final  lines  of  the 
play  dressed  in  white  against  a  white  curtain. 
Gloucester:  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer.  .  .  . 

Between  these  two  extremes  of  black  on  black  and 
white  on  white  the  play  takes  its  course. 


M  A  S  S  E  -  M  E  N  S  C  H 


—  MOB-MAN 


position  seem  highly  significant.  This  society  of  proletarian 
playgoers  was  founded  more  than  thirty  years  ago  as  a  sprouting 
bed  for  naturalistic  drama  and  the  social  thesis-play.  To-day 
it  still  cultivates  the  best  in  Realism  and  in  the  social  drama, 
but  it  looks  condescendingly  on  the  thesis-play,  and  it  gives  the 
most  completely  artistic  and  successful  example  to  be  seen  in 
Germany  of  an  expressionist  play  and  an  expressionist  produc- 
tion. 

The  Volksbiihne  has  always  had  a  double  policy — that 
of  buying  out  performances  of  good  plays  and  retailing  the 
seats  to  its  members  for  much  less  than  the  box  office  prices,  and 
that  of  producing  plays  itself.  It  began  with  a  few  Sunday  per- 
formances of  both  kinds,  and  steadily  grew  in  membership  to 
the  point  where  it  buys  all  the  Sunday  matinees  at  a  number 
of  theaters,  has  two  playhouses  of  its  own,  the  Volksbiihne  and 
the  Neues  Volkstheater,  and  is  organizing  an  opera  house,  the 
Volksoper.  One  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  men  and  women 
of  the  lower  and  lower-middle  classes  subscribed  in  1922  for 
eight  productions,  either  at  the  society's  theaters  or  at  the  play- 
houses with  which  it  deals. 

The  Volksbuhne  itself  is  rather  an  extraordinary  theater. 
Its  striking  front,  with  the  words  Die  Kunst  dem  Volke  upon 
its  pediment,  rises  across  a  street  that  cuts  through  the  working- 
men's  quarter  of  Berlin,  and,  after  a  slight  bend,  crosses  the 
Spree  and  becomes  Unter  den  Linden.    From  above  its  little 

145 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

triangle  of  park,  the  Volksbiihne  stares  ironically  and,  doubt- 
less, a  little  proudly  down  the  long  street  that  passes  the  hideous 
art  galleries  of  the  Prussian  government,  the  palaces  once  occu- 
pied by  the  Hohenzollerns,  the  State  Opera,  where  royalty 
turned  its  back  upon  Richard  Strauss,  and  runs  on  to  the  Bran- 
denburger  Tor  of  Imperial  memories.  The  theater  has  the 
grimly  noble  air  of  the  best  of  German  architecture.  In  its 
auditorium  Oskar  Kaufmann  has  turned  from  the  austerity  of 
gray  stone  to  the  richness  of  red  mahogany.  The  working  class 
audiences  of  the  Volksbiihne  find  themselves  seated,  therefore, 
in  the  handsomest  and  doubtless  the  most  costly  auditorium  of 
Berlin  when  they  come  to  see  the  play  which  might  almost  be 
the  story  of  their  own  defeat  in  the  communist  risings  of  1919. 

Masse-Mensch  itself  is  a  play,  half  dream  and  half  reality, 
in  which  is  pictured  the  conflict  of  Masse^  the  masses,  against 
Menschy  the  individual,  of  violent  revolution  against  passive 
strike.  Its  drama  pleads  piteously  for  the  sacredness  of  human 
life  and  the  equal  guilt  of  the  State  or  the  revolution  that  takes 
it.  Because  it  was  written  by  Ernst  Toller,  who,  as  he  wrote  it, 
lay  in  a  Munich  jail  serving  a  twenty-year  sentence  for  his 
part  as  Minister  of  Justice  in  the  red  rebellion  which  followed 
the  assassination  of  Kurt  Eisner  by  the  reactionaries.  Masse- 
Mensch  is  pretty  generally  taboo  in  German  theaters.  In 
the  first  six  months  after  its  premiere  at  the  Volksbiihne 
(29th  September,  1921)  it  was  played  about  seventy  times,  a 

146 


Richard  III:  the  final  moment.  White  virtue 
triumphs. 

Richmond:  Now  civil  wounds  are  stopp'd,  Peace 
lives  again: 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say 
Amen ! 


MASSE-MENSCH  —  MOB-MAN 

very  great  number  of  performances  in  repertory.  But  upon  its 
production  in  Nuremberg  riots  interrupted  the  first  perform- 
ance, and  it  was  never  repeated. 

To  the  significance  of  the  play  itself  and  the  proletarian 
organization  which  flings  it  in  the  face  of  a  Germany  where 
monarchists  and  republicans,  socialists  and  communists.  State 
and  cabals,  murder  with  almost  equal  recklessness,  must  be 
added  a  truly  remarkable  type  and  quality  of  production.  It 
bears  a  certain  relation  to  the  work  of  Jessner  at  the  State 
Schauspielhaus,  where,  by  the  way,  Fehling  is  now  to  be  em- 
ployed. It  is  absolutely  free  of  Realism  and  representation — 
as  all  expressionist  production  must  be.  It  reduces  setting  to 
less  than  symbol,  to  what  is  hardly  more  than  a  convenient 
platform  for  the  actor.    It  uses  light  arbitrarily. 

Masse-Mensch  is  a  piece  in  seven  scenes.  The  first,  third, 
fifth  and  seventh  are  actual  j  the  others  are  dream-pictures. 
In  the  first  scene  Toller's  stage  directions  call  for  "The  rear 
room  of  a  workingman's  meeting  hall.  On  the  white-washed 
walls,  portraits  of  leaders  of  the  people  and  photographs  of 
union  delegates.  In  the  center  a  heavy  table,  at  which  a 
woman  and  two  workmen  are  seated.''  The  stage  directions 
for  the  second  scene,  or  first  dream-picture,  read:  "Indicated: 
The  hall  of  a  stock  exchange.  At  the  desk,  a  clerk  3  about  him, 
bankers  and  brokers." 

The  playwright  felt  keenly  the  possibilities  of  the  modern, 

147 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

subjective  methods  of  productions,  or  he  would  not  have  used 
the  word,  "indicated."  He  did  not  feel  them  clearly  enough, 
however,  to  risk  more  than  their  application  to  the  dream-pic- 
tures. But,  taking  "Indicated"  as  a  key-word,  Fehling  has 
boldly  ventured  to  apply  abstract  and  expressionist  methods  to 
the  whole  of  this  thoroughly  expressionist  play.  In  the  first 
scene,  for  instance,  as  you  see  it  at  the  Volksbiihne,  there  is  no 
hall,  there  is  no  desk,  there  are  no  portraits.  There  is  nothing 
but  a  deep  box  of  high  black  curtains,  and  in  the  center  a  very 
low,  broad  platform.  Upon  this  platform,  spotted  out  with 
three  shafts  of  light,  are  the  two  men  and  the  woman  in  the 
taut  attitudes  of  wrestlers  as  they  clasp  hands,  the  woman  in 
the  middle.  For  the  dream  scene,  the  stage  is  again  in  black 
curtains,  but  those  at  the  rear  are  occasionally  opened  to  show  a 
clerk  on  an  impossibly  high  stool,  writing  on  an  impossibly  high 
desk,  almost  in  silhouette  against  the  yellow-lighted  dome.  A 
few  steps  lead  down  into  the  darkness  of  the  front  stage. 
Fehling  and  his  stage  designer,  Hans  Strohbach,  pursue  the 
same  general  method  in  the  succeeding  scenes.  The  "real" 
episodes  are  set  in  black  curtains  and  with  steps  of  one  sort  or 
another^  they  are  lit  by  obvious  beams  of  light,  and  they  are 
given  no  more  color  than  shows  in  the  woman's  severe  blue  dress 
and  one  glimpse  of  the  yellow  dome.  The  dream-pictures  are 
more  elaborately  staged,  though  they  seem  quite  bare  by  the 
standard  of  our  productions.    The  curious  part  is  that  the 

148 


/ 


Masse-Mensch:  dream-picture.  A  courtyard. 
Towering  dark  walls  lean  inward;  a  green  night 
sky;  guards  with  lanterns  seated  on  the  floor  at 
either  side.  A  man  stands  in  the  center  playing  a 
concertina. 


MASSE-MENSCH  — MOB-MAN 

scenes  of  reality  are  more  expressionistic,  considering  their  pur- 
pose, than  the  dream-pictures.  Reality  is  made  of  nothing 
but  abstract  plastic  shapes,  harsh,  and  harshly  lit.  Dreamland 
is  sometimes  painted  and  shaped  in  the  slightly  decorative  spirit 
of  Expressionism,  and  it  is  lit  with  beauty  and  atmosphere. 

The  effective  arrangement  of  Strohbach's  scenes,  and  the 
powerful  use  which  Fehling  makes  of  them  stamp  the  physical 
side  of  this  production  with  distinction.  Spiritually  it  is  even 
more  distinguished  because  of  the  rightness  of  vision  with 
which  Fehling  interprets  the  play,  and  the  brilliance  with 
which  he  handles,  not  only  the  individual  acting,  but  a  chorus 
of  united  voices,  which  speaks  through  many  scenes  with  an 
extraordinary  clarity  and  emotion. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  first  scene  the  actors  strike  the 
note  of  intensity  and  conviction,  both  as  players  and  as  charac- 
ters, which  they  are  to  carry  through  the  whole  performance. 
Mary  Dietrich,  once  of  Reinhardt's  company,  plays  superbly 
the  woman  protagonist  of  the  strike  and  of  humanity.  From 
the  moment  when  her  husband  comes  to  her  in  the  name  of  love 
to  ask  her  to  give  up  the  leadership  of  the  strike,  which  will 
begin  next  day,  Dietrich  drives  with  such  furious  precision  at 
the  meaning  of  this  woman  that  she  stands  out  immediately  as 
a  sort  of  Christ-figure.  In  the  beginning  she  must  give  up 
all;  she  must  leave  home  and  love,  to  follow  her  call.  In  the 
end  she  must  go  to  the  scaffold  rejecting  all  means  of  escape.  It 

149 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

is  one  of  the  distinctions  of  this  play,  as  well  as  of  Dietrich's 
playing,  that  this  reference  to  Christ  is  so  beautiful  and  so  sure, 
yet  so  reticent. 

The  second  scene,  the  dream-picture  of  a  stock  exchange,  is 
a  foreboding  and  dread  satire.  The  bankers  and  brokers  bid 
up  human  souls  in  the  war  that  is  under  way,  and  make  plans 
for  an  international  corporation,  which,  posing  as  a  founder  of 
homes  for  convalescent  soldiers,  will  open  brothels  for  the 
troops.  The  woman  appears  in  her  dream,  and  makes  a  vain 
appeal  to  the  humanity  of  these  men.  The  bankers  hear  only 
the  announcement  of  a  mine  accident  and  plan  a  benefit  dance, 
beginning  with  a  fox-trot  by  the  brokers  around  the  stage. 

The  third  scene  is  the  labor  meeting  at  which  a  decision 
is  to  be  taken  on  action  to  stop  the  making  of  munitions  and 
end  the  war.  Here  again,  Fehling  throws  the  author's  real- 
istic stage  directions  overboard  (much,  be  it  said,  to  the  author's 
pleasure).  Instead  of  a  hall,  there  is  again  blackness,  empti- 
ness. Out  of  the  emptiness  speaks  a  marvelous  choral  voice,  the 
voice  of  the  masses,  measured,  vibrant,  intense: 

Wir  ewig  eingekeilt 
In  Schluchten  steiler  Hauser. 
Wir  preisgegeben 
Der  Mechanik  hohnischer  Systeme. 
Wir  antlitzlos  in  Nacht  der  Tranen. 
Wir  ewig  losgelost  von  Muttern, 
150 


Massc-Mensch:  the  revolutionists'  meeting.  On 
a  broad  flight  of  steps  rising  steeply  from  the  foot- 
lights, men  and  women  are  grouped  in  an  irregu- 
lar lozenge,  arbitrarily  lit  by  sharp  beams  of  light 
from  the  top  and  sides  of  the  proscenium  arch. 
A  Fehling  production  designed  by  Strohbach. 


M  ASSE-MENSCH  — 


MOB-MAN 


Aus  Tiefen  der  Fabriken  rufen  wir: 
Wann  werden  Liebe  wir  leben? 
Wann  werden  Werk  wir  wirken? 
Wann  wird  Erlosung  uns? 

Nothing  like  this  voice,  coming  out  of  a  darkness  in  which 
faces  vaguely  begin  to  hover,  has  been  imagined,  much  less  at- 
tempted, in  our  theater.  The  lights  rise — or  it  would  be  more 
accurate  to  say,  shoot  down — upon  the  men  and  women  workers 
standing  in  an  irregular  lozenge  shape  upon  steep  steps,  which 
spread  to  the  curtains  at  each  side.  Out  of  this  crowd,  in 
chorus  and  singly,  come  pleas  for  action,  and  visions  of  suffer- 
ing which  sweep  the  audience  with  emotion.  The  woman  cries 
for  a  strike  against  war  and  against  capital.  Behind  her  rises 
The  Nameless  One,  the  bastard  of  War,  to  cry  for  armed  revolt. 
His  passion  sweeps  the  masses,  and  the  woman  submits. 

The  fourth  scene,  another  dream-picture,  envisages  her  fears 
for  the  course  of  the  revolution,  her  intuition  that  it  will  only 
breed  a  new  violence,  the  violence  of  the  proletariat.  Below 
great,  crooked,  towering  walls,  guards  hang  over  green  lanterns. 
They  sing  ribald  songs  of  their  miseries.  The  Nameless  One 
enters,  and,  standing  in  the  middle,  plays  wildly  on  a  concertina, 
while  the  guards  and  the  condemned  dance  the  dance  of  death 
about  him.  The  sky  lights  up  on  a  sudden  in  crimson,  then 
pulses  in  and  out;  colors  flood  down  over  the  moving  figures  in 
waves  that  throb  with  the  music.    Among  the  condemned  is 

151 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

the  husband  of  the  woman.  She  tries  to  save  him,  as  she  would 
save  all  men  from  violence.  Her  pleas  are  useless.  She  stands 
with  him  before  the  firing  squad  as  the  curtain  falls. 

The  fifth  scene,  the  tremendous  scene  of  the  play  and  the 
production,  is  the  rally  at  the  workers'  headquarters  in  the  face 
of  defeat.  The  stage  is  again  boxed  in  black.  There  are 
steps  like  the  corner  of  a  pyramid  rising  up  to  the  right  of  the 
audience.  Upon  these  steps  gather  the  working  people.  You 
see  a  host,  affrighted  and  cowering,  in  the  twenty-four  men  and 
women  who  stagger  upon  the  steps  singing  The  Marseillaise, 
As  they  sway,  locked  together  hand  in  hand,  like  men  on  a 
sinking  ship,  and  the  old  song  mounts  up  against  the  distant 
rattle  of  machine  guns,  the  scene  brings  the  cold  sweat  of  des- 
perate excitement  to  the  audience  that  fills  the  Volksbiihne, 
and  to  comfortable,  purse-proud  Americans  as  much  as  to  men 
who  have  fought  in  the  streets  of  Berlin.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
louder  rattle  of  arms.  The  noise  sweeps  through  the  air.  It 
drives  into  the  souls  of  the  huddling  men  and  women.  They 
collapse,  go  down,  fall  in  a  tangled  heap.  The  curtains  at  the 
left  loop  up  suddenly.  There  in  the  gap  against  the  yellow 
sky  stand  the  soldiers.  They  arrest  the  woman,  the  woman 
whom  the  rebels  were  about  to  condemn  for  her  opposition  to 
their  slaughter. 

The  sixth  scene  is  a  dream-picture  of  the  woman  in  prison. 
There  is  a  void,  a  misty,  swimming  emptiness.    Upon  a  plat- 

152 

\ 


Massc-Mcnsch:  the  rallying.  A  pyramid  of  steps 
slanting  to  the  right  of  the  stage.  At  its  apex,  a 
group  of  tense  revolutionists  sing  The  Marseillaise y 
the  woman-heroine  opposite  them  in  the  center. 
Suddenly  machine-guns  attack  the  meeting. 


MASSE-MENSCH  — MOB-MAN 

form  is  the  woman's  cell,  a  scarlet  cage  in  which  she  can 
only  kneel.  About  her  stand  guards,  bankers,  the  ghosts  of 
dead  enemies.  They  accuse  her.  She  answers.  At  last,  out 
of  the  void  rise  the  shapes  of  the  masses,  the  imprisoned  masses 
who  have  been  betrayed  by  violence  and  by  the  woman  who 
deserted  them  and  cast  her  lot  with  violence.  They  move  in 
a  great  circle  of  towering  shadows  that  seem  to  hang  in  the 
emptiness  of  the  sky,  as  they  pass  across  the  dome  at  the  back 
of  the  stage.  The  guilt  of  the  masses,  the  guilt  of  the  in- 
dividual, the  guilt  of  the  woman — they  have  filled  the  air  with 
recrimination.  The  figures  of  the  imprisoned  masses  stop  sud- 
denly in  their  round.  They  raise  their  arms.  They  cry:  "We 
accuse! 

There  is  only  the  final  scene  left.  It  is  in  her  cell.  Again 
the  black  curtains;  some  narrow  steps.  The  husband  comes 
to  bring  her  freedom.  The  Nameless  One  also,  with  a  plan  of 
escape  through  murdering  the  guards.  She  rejects  both.  She 
rejects  the  priest,  accusing  men  of  primeval  sin.  She  goes  to 
her  death.  And  as  she  goes,  two  women  prisoners  sneak  out 
into  the  light — to  divide  the  clothes  of  this  new  Christ. 

Schuldig!  Guilty!  Guilty!  The  word  echoes  through 
the  play,  echoes  in  the  auditorium  of  the  Volksbuhne.  All  are 
guilty.  All  are  sick  with  guilt.  And  none  more  than  these 
suff'erers  in  the  slums  of  Berlin  who  must  go  to  the  theater  to  see 
in  black  curtains  the  picture  of  their  guilt.    The  world  goes 

153 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

through  capitalisirij  debasing  itself,  driving  terror,  greed, 
cruelty  into  the  place  of  love  and  understanding.  It  comes  out 
in  revolution,  a  corruption  of  the  thing  it  cures.  The  Germans 
have  been  through  capitalism  with  a  vengeance,  through  mate- 
rialism, through  war,  and  through  a  revolution  that  blasted  half 
the  people  and  did  not  satisfy  the  rest.  Here  is  the  misery  of 
capitalism,  the  misery  of  abortive  revolution,  the  misery  of 
defeat  and  black  hunger.  Berlin  is  in  purgatory.  And  Berlin 
goes  to  Masse-Mensch,  Before  this  play  sit  hundreds  of  quite 
ordinary  men,  who  have  only  to  hear  some  word  shouted  at  them 
with  the  passion  of  this  play,  and  they  will  leave  the  slow  and 
loved  routine  of  homes,  and  lie  again  behind  sandbags  on  Unter 
den  Linden.  All  this  is  a  strange,  terrible,  and  sweet  thing 
to  feel  as  you  sit  looking  at  the  purgatory  of  those  black  curtains. 

Toller  and  Fehling  have  made  possible  the  realization  of 
this  intense  situation  between  play  and  audience;  Toller  by 
writing  straight  at  the  heart  of  his  public.  His  dialogue  makes 
no  pretense  to  the  accidental  rhythms  of  life.  It  speaks  out 
plainly  and  simply  and  beautifully  the  passion  of  each  charac- 
ter, the  passions  of  the  world.  Fehling  has  driven  Toller's 
speeches  just  as  directly  at  the  public.  He  has  made  no  pre- 
tense at  actuality.  He  has  put  his  actors  forward  as  actors  on 
an  abstract  stage;  and  you  think  of  them  only  as  living,  intimate 
presences. 

Comparison  between  Fehling  and  Jessner  is  inevitable. 

154 


Masse-Mensch:  the  machine-guns.  The  black 
curtains  at  the  back  are  thrown  open.  Soldiers 
and  officers  are  seen  enveloped  in  a  thin  haze  of 
smoke.  The  group  shrinks  back  and  falls  to- 
gether. 


\ 


MASSE-MENSCH  — MOB-MAN 

They  are  both  working  upon  the  newest  problem  of  production, 
the  problem  of  escaping  from  Realism  to  reality  and  to  the 
theater.  They  both  throw  overboard  every  shred  of  actuality 
that  stands  in  the  way  of  inner  emotional  truth.  Technically, 
Fehling  is  as  insistent  as  Jessner  on  the  abstract,  the  formal 
production  as  the  means  of  giving  the  actor  and  his  emotion 
vividly  and  completely  to  the  audience.  Fehling  realizes  as 
keenly  as  Jessner  does  how  different  playing-levels  can  help 
him  in  deploying  and  emphasizing  his  actors.  He  does  not, 
like  Jessner,  use  the  same  levels  throughout  a  play.  He  creates 
new  plastics  as  he  needs  them.  His  production  is  formal  in 
principle,  but  he  does  not  rely  upon  a  stage  of  certain  permanent 
forms.  His  lighting  is  abstract,  like  Jessner's,  paying  no  atten- 
tion at  all  to  actuality;  but  it  is  not  so  free  or  so  wilful  in 
changes.  The  lights  make  a  definite  pattern  in  each  scene  and 
stick  to  it  throughout.  The  only  sharp  exception  is  the  scene 
of  the  dance  of  the  condemned.  Fehling  does  not  try  to  make 
his  lighting  a  running  gloss  to  the  words  of  the  play. 

Fehling  may  be  much  over-praised  by  the  emotion  of  Masse- 
Mensch;  perhaps  there  is  a  something  in  the  passion  of  the  play 
which  lights  up  these  players  and  these  playgoers  of  the 
Volksbiihne,  and  brings  forth  a  unique  and  unwilled  emotion. 
But  there  seem  to  be  certain  qualities  in  this  production  which 
stamp  the  director  as  a  man  of  imagination  and  power. 
Certainly  Fehling  has  a  large  and  healthful  simpleness.  He 

155 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

isn't  finicking  over  rudimentary  explanations  with  lights  and 
shadows  and  primary  colors.  He  isn't  missing  the  quality  of 
the  play  in  an  endeavor  to  create  a  thing  of  a  single  startling 
or  novel  tone.  He  is  certainly  winning  from  his  actors  a  spirit- 
ual cooperation  finer  than  any  that  we  saw  in  Germany.  He 
is  unmistakably  one  of  the  leaders  along  new  paths — a  sure  and 
challenging  force. 


156 


Massc-Mcnsch:  A  woman  dressed  in  blue  in  a 
dream-prison  of  twisted  scarlet  bars,  surrounded 
by  motionless  dark  figures.  Behind,  gigantic 
spectral  shadow-shapes  march  across  a  faintly  lumi- 
nous void. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"THE  THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND" 

OVER  some  fifteen  years  a  growing  number  of  minds 
have  been  more  or  less  actively  seeking  a  way  towards 
a  new  type  of  theater.  They  have  been  abusing  the 
picture-frame  stage,  stamping  on  the  footlights,  pulling  out  the 
front  of  the  apron,  pushing  the  actors  into  the  loges,  down  the 
orchestra  pit,  onto  the  prompter's  box,  out  upon  runways  or  up 
the  aisles.  They  have  even  gone  clear  out  of  the  playhouse  and 
into  circuses,  open  air  theaters,  and  public  parks.  All  to  set  up 
a  new  and  mutual  relationship  between  the  actor  and  the  audi- 
ence. 

You  might  almost  say  to  set  up  any  mutual  relationship  at 
all;  for  the  players  of  the  peephole  theater  of  Realism,  the 
picture-frame  theater,  the  fourth  wall  theater,  can  hardly  be 
said  to  have  anything  resembling  a  relationship  to  the  specta- 
tor. The  thing  peeped  at  can't  be  aware  of  the  peeper.  A 
picture  does  not  know  that  it  has  an  audience.  Walls  may 
have  ears,  but  the  fourth  wall  has  no  eyes.  It  is  the  essence  of 
Realism  and  of  realistic  acting  that  they  have  their  justification 
in  the  thing  they  resemble,  not  in  the  people  who  may  or  may 

157 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

not  be  able  to  recognize  the  resemblance.  A  perfect  realistic 
performance  is  a  thing  so  close  to  life  that  it  cannot  permit  itself 
to  be  aware  of  even  its  own  existence.  Its  perfection  is  so  much 
more  related  to  the  thing  it  imitates  than  to  the  audience  which 
looks  at  itj  that  it  would  be  no  less  perfect  if  there  were  no  one 
at  all  to  look.  The  fourth  wall  is  a  fourth  wall.  It  might 
just  as  well  be  as  real  as  the  other  three.  Alexander  Bakshy 
wrote  of  Stanislavsky's  company:  "It  would  have  made  scarcely 
an  atom  of  difference  to  the  adequacy  and  completeness  of  the 
Art  Theater's  performance  if  the  audience  had  been  entirely 
removed.'' 

Such  performances  can  be  very  interesting  in  their  way, 
extraordinarily  interesting,  in  fact,  when  such  players  as 
Stanislavsky's  bring  spiritual  distinction  to  their  Realism.  But 
there  is  another  sort  of  thing  that  can  be  interesting,  too. 
Some  think  it  can  be  more  interesting;  at  any  rate  they  want  to 
find  out  what  it  was  that  kept  the  theater  contented  for  the 
twenty-five  centuries  before  it  knew  Realism.  They  want  to 
draw  out  the  actor  and  the  spectator;  the  actor  out  of  the  pic- 
ture frame  and  the  spectator — if  the  actor  is  good  enough — out 
of  his  seat.  They  want  to  make  the  actor  an  actor  once  more. 
And  they  think  that  a  new  sort  of  theater — or  a  very  old  sort — 
might  have  something  to  do  with  it. 

Directors  have  thought  about  it,  and  playwrights,  dancing 
teachers,  architects,  scenic  artists,  actors,  and  critics.  Max 

158 


^^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND'' 

Reinhardt  put  a  runway  over  the  audience  in  Sumurun  more 
than  a  dozen  years  ago  and  staged  Sophocles  in  a  circus.  Percy 
MacKaye  developed  the  community  masque  as  a  new  form  of 
outdoor  theatrical  performance  through  The  Masque  of  St. 
Louis  and  Caliban^  and  brought  it  indoors  with  The  'Evergreen 
Tree  and  The  Will  of  Song,  Jaques-Dalcroze,  deviser  of  the 
eurythmic  system  of  dance-education,  created  in  Hellerau-bei- 
Dresden,  before  the  war,  a  hall  holding  the  stage  and  the  spec- 
tators within  translucent  walls  lit  by  ten  thousand  lights,  and 
there,  with  the  aid  of  Adolphe  Appia,  he  gave  Paul  ClaudePs 
drama  UAnnonce  faite  a  Marie,  Frank  Lloyd  Wright,  de- 
signing a  theater  for  Aline  Barnsdall  of  Los  Angeles,  created 
a  model  showing  an  adjustable  proscenium,  which  was  hardly 
a  proscenium,  a  domed  stage  which  curved  into  the  lines  of  the 
auditorium,  and  a  permanent  architectural  setting  consisting  of 
a  wall  twelve  feet  high  running  across  the  stage.  Herman 
Rosse,  the  scenic  artist,  took  to  sketching  theaters  with  all  man- 
ner of  odd  forestages  and  portals.  Norman-Bel  Geddes  threw 
off  in  1914  a  plan  for  a  theater  with  stage  and  audience  housed 
under  a  single  dome,  and  in  1 92 1  designed  a  magnificent  project 
for  the  production  of  Dante's  The  "Divine  Comedy  in  Madison 
Square  Garden  in  a  permanent  setting  of  ringed  steps,  towering 
plinths,  and  light.  Gemier,  the  French  actor,  introduced  the 
Reinhardt  circus-theater  to  Paris.  Jacques  Copeau  left  his 
reviewing  of  plays  to  create  in  the  Vieux-Colombier  a  theater 

159 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

without  a  prosceniunij  and  with  a  forestage  and  a  permanent 
setting,  in  order  to  give  his  troupe  of  actors  a  fresh  and  truly- 
theatrical  relation  to  their  audience. 

The  first  attempts  to  escape  from  the  realistic  theater  were 
Gargantuan.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  something  so  essentially 
small  about  our  theater  that  a  huge  thing  was  the  natural  alter- 
native. Max  Reinhardt  and  Percy  MacKaye,  the  two  men  who 
began  the  break  with  the  realistic  theater,  and  who  carried  their 
conceptions  furthest,  plunged  immediately  to  the  huge,  the 
magnificent.  They  could  have  found  inspiration  in  Gordon 
Craig,  as  practically  every  innovator  in  our  playhouse  has  done. 
For  Gordon  Craig,  too,  saw  a  gigantic  vision  of  the  break  be- 
tween this  peepshow  of  ours  and  the  next  theater: 

"I  see  a  great  building  to  seat  many  thousands  of  people. 
At  one  end  rises  a  platform  of  heroic  size  on  which  figurfes  of  a 
heroic  mold  shall  move.  The  scene  shall  be  such  as  the 
world  shows  us,  not  as  our  own  particular  little  street  shows  us. 
The  movements  of  these  scenes  shall  be  noble  and  great:  all 
shall  be  illuminated  by  a  light  such  as  the  spheres  give  us,  not 
such  as  the  footlights  give  us,  but  such  as  we  dream  of.'' 

MacKaye  had  a  family  tradition  to  urge  him  towards  large 
experiments.  His  father,  Steele  MacKaye,  irritated  no  doubt 
by  the  limitations  of  the  nineteenth  century  theater  as  we  are 
irritated  by  the  limitations  of  the  theater  of  the  twentieth 
century,  conceived  and  all  but  launched  a  grandiose  and  extra- 

160 


'^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND'' 


ordinary  scheme  for  a  playhouse  at  the  Chicago  World's  Fair. 
The  Spectatorium,  which  was  to  seat  ten  thousand  people  and 
give  a  spectacle  of  music  and  drama,  movement  and  light, 
dancing  and  action,  on  land  and  on  water,  was  burned,  how- 
ever, before  it  could  be  completed. 

The  dominating  idea  in  the  younger  MacKaye  was  to  create 
a  dramatic  form  of  and  for  the  people.  It  was  to  celebrate  the 
works  of  humanity  5  The  Masque  of  St,  Louis  commemorated 
the  founding  of  the  western  city,  and  Caliban  the  tercentenary 
of  Shakespeare's  death.  The  MacKaye  masque  was  to  be 
acted  and  danced  by  the  community  with  the  assistance  of  a 
few  trained  players,  and  it  was  to  be  seen  by  as  many  as  possible  j 
in  St.  Louis  7,000  took  part  and  200,000  looked  on.  The 
experience  of  these  community  masques  led  MacKaye  to  want 
the  active  participation  of  the  citizens  as  audience  as  well  as 
of  the  citizens  as  actors,  and  in  The  Evergreen  Tree  he 
arranged  a  Christmas  festival,  to  be  given  either  out  of  doors 
or  within,  in  which  the  spectators  sang  with  the  chorus  and 
the  actors,  who  passed  through  the  midst  of  them.  Another 
desire  of  MacKaye's  was  the  enlarging  of  the  characters  of 
his  masques  to  gigantic  size.  He  did  this  literally  in  The 
Masque  of  St,  Louis  with  the  huge  figure  which  stood  for 
Cahokia.  In  The  Will  of  Songy  given  its  first  production  in- 
doors, he  began  to  work  upon  the  idea  of  the  "group  being," 
a  single  dramatic  entity  visualized  through  a  mass  of  players. 

161 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Whether  or  not  Reinhardt  began  his  first  great  circus- 
production,  Sophocles'  (Edipus  ReXy  with  an  esthetic  philos- 
ophy, he  had  one  before  he  was  finished  with  Orestes^  Haupt- 
mann's  Festspiely  and  EverymaUy  the  productions  which  fol- 
lowed. This  was  visible  in  his  works  as  well  as  in  the  out- 
givings of  his  Blatter  des  Deutschen  Theaters, 

Like  MacKaye,  Reinhardt  found  a  tremendous  fascination 
in  the  relationship  of  this  sort  of  production  to  man  in  the  mass. 
In  the  "theater  of  the  five  thousand/'  as  he  called  it,  audiences 
are  no  longer  audiences.  They  are  the  people.  "Their 
emotions  are  simple  and  primitive,  but  great  and  powerful,  as 
becomes  the  eternal  human  race."  This  follows  from  the 
nature  of  the  theater  and  the  relation  of  the  actors  to  the  audi- 
ence. Monumentality  is  the  key  note  of  such  great  spaces. 
It  is  only  the  strongest  and  deepest  feelings — the  eternal 
elements — that  can  move  these  great  gatherings.  The  small 
and  the  petty  disappear. 

Yet  the  emotion  is  direct  and  poignant,  according  to  Rein- 
hardt, because  of  a  spiritual  intimacy  established  by  the  new 
relation  of  actors  and  audience.  In  the  Circus  Schumann  in 
Berlin  Reinhardt  revived  the  Greek  orchestra.  At  one  end  of 
the  building  was  the  front  of  a  temple.  The  actors  came  out 
in  great  mobs  before  the  temple,  upon  an  acting  floor  surrounded 
on  three  sides  by  banks  of  spectators.  In  the  theory  and  the 
practice  of  Reinhardt  there  should  be  no  curtain  to  conceal  the 

162 


^^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND'^ 

setting.  When  the  spectator  enters  he  finds  himself  in  the 
midst  of  great  spaces,  confronted  by  the  whole  scene,  and  him- 
self a  part  of  it.  When  he  is  seated  and  the  play  begins  he 
finds  that  "the  chorus  rises  and  moves  in  the  midst  of  the  audi- 
ence 5  the  characters  meet  each  other  amid  the  spectators;  from 
all  sides  the  hearer  is  being  impressed,  so  that  gradually  he  be- 
comes part  of  the  whole,  and  is  rapidly  absorbed  in  the  action, 
a  member  of  the  chorus,  so  to  speak."  This  is  a  point  that 
Reinhardt  has  always  stressed  in  his  big  productions.  This 
desire  to  make  the  spectators  feel  themselves  participants  is  the 
same  desire  that  MacKaye  has  carried  to  the  point  of  actually 
making  them  so. 

Reinhardt  stressed  the  importance  of  the  actors  being  made 
one  with  the  audience  through  appearing  in  their  midst.  This 
maintained  the  intimacy  which,  he  felt,  was  the  most  valuable 
contribution  of  the  realistic  movement  in  the  theater — an 
intimacy  produced  in  the  main  by  the  small  auditoriums 
required  if  conversational  acting  were  to  be  audible.  Gigantic 
conceptions  and  tremendous  emotional  emphasis  could  thus  be 
brought  home  to  the  spectator. 

Technically  the  circus-theater  made  interesting  demands. 
From  the  reghseur  and  the  scene  designer  it  required  the  utmost 
simplicity.  Only  the  biggest  and  severest  forms  could  be 
used.  Light  was  the  main  source  of  decoration;  it  emphasized 
the  important  and  hid  the  unessential.    Actmg,  too,  under- 

163 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

went  the  same  test.  The  player  had  to  develop  a  simple  and 
tremendous  power.  He  had  to  dominate  by  intensity  and  by 
dignity,  by  the  vital  and  the  great.  There  had  to  be  music  in 
him,  as  there  had  to  be  music  in  the  action  itself. 

The  war  prevented  Reinhardt  from  continuing  his  experi- 
ments in  mass-production,  and  bringing  them  to  fruition  in  a 
theater  built  especially  for  the  purpose.  With  the  coming 
of  peace  he  was  able  to  remodel  and  re-open  the  old  Circus 
Schumann  as  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus.  But  in  less  than  two 
years  Reinhardt  had  left  it  in  discouragement,  his  great 
dream  shattered.  By  the  summer  of  1922  it  could  definitely 
be  stamped  an  artistic  failure — crowded  to  the  doors  every 
night. 

It  is  not  easy  to  trace  the  cause  of  failure,  but  it  seems  to  lie 
in  the  curious  fact  that  here  Reinhardt  was  both  careless  and 
too  careful.  Physically  the  theater  was  wrong,  if  the  theory 
was  right,  and  its  physical  mistakes  can  be  traced  to  Reinhardt. 
He  was  too  careful  in  planning  it  and  not  courageous  enough. 
Because  he  feared  for  its  future  as  a  financial  undertaking,  he 
seems  to  have  compromised  it  in  form,  in  order  that  it  could  be 
used  as  an  ordinary,  though  huge  playhouse  if  it  failed  as  a 
new  kind  of  theater.  He  put  in  the  Greek  orchestra  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  spectators.  He  made  the  floor 
flexible  in  its  levels,  and  led  it  up  by  adjustable  platforms  to 
a  stage  at  one  side  of  the  house.    This  much  was  right  enough. 

164 


An  impression  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  in 
Berlin.  In  the  center  rises  the  great  dome,  dimly 
lit.  At  the  left  of  the  picture  the  looming  shadow 
of  the  hood  above  the  forestage.  A  shaft  of  light 
from  the  dome  strikes  across  the  space  to  the  figure 
of  Judith,  standing  lonely  and  brave.  Beyond, 
row  after  row  of  faces  just  visible  in  the  darkness. 


^^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND'' 

But  then  he  made  the  thing  a  compromise  between  the  Greek 
theater,  a  circus,  and  the  modern  playhouse,  by  slapping  a 
proscenium  arch  into  the  side  wall  and  installing  behind  it  a 
huge  stage  with  all  the  mechanical  folderols  of  the  day — great 
dome,  cloud-machine,  revolving  stage.  It  was  beyond  human 
nature  to  resist  the  temptation  of  playing  with  the  whole 
gigantic  toy.  Neither  Reinhardt  nor  the  directors  who  suc- 
ceeded him  could  be  content,  as  they  should  have  been,  to  lower 
the  curtain  across  the  proscenium,  to  plaster  up  the  fourth  wall. 
Perhaps  there  were  not  enough  great  dramas  like  (Edi-pus  to 
draw  for  months  the  gigantic  audiences  needed  to  support  the 
venture  3  but  this  only  meant  that  such  a  theater  must  be  main- 
tained for  festival  performances,  not  that  it  must  be  filled  with 
bastard  productions  requiring  a  picture  stage  and  largely  in- 
audible across  the  spaces  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus. 

Reinhardt  was  as  careless  in  his  selection  of  an  architect  as 
he  was  careful  in  compromise.  His  original  conception  of  the 
place  was  excellent.  He  wanted  it  primitive  and  grand.  He 
wanted  it  to  soar.  And  he  thought  of  early  Gothic.  Between 
the  pillars  that  had  to  be  there  to  support  the  roof  of  the  old 
circus,  he  wanted  a  dark  blue  background,  a  background  of 
emptiness.  The  dome  over  the  middle  was  to  vanish  into  a 
deep  presence,  lit  sometimes  by  dim  stars.  Some  one  got  to 
Reinhardt,  and  persuaded  him  that  he  must  be  "modern  j''  he 
must  assume  a  leadership  in  architecture  j  he  must  give  a  chance 

165 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

to  the  greatest  of  the  new  architects,  Hans  Poelzig.  Rein- 
hardt  consented.    And  Poelzig  produced  a  very  strange  affair. 

Some  of  the  mistakes  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  may  be 
laid  to  the  old  building.  The  banks  of  seats  are  rather  close 
against  the  roof,  while  the  middle  of  the  house  is  bridged  by  a 
gigantic  dome.  These  conditions  might  have  been  minimized 
by  giving  the  low  portion  lines  that  seemed  to  mount,  and  per- 
haps by  closing  in  a  large  part  of  the  dome  or  darkening  it. 
Instead  Poelzig  has  made  the  dome  the  only  lovely  and  aspir- 
ing part  of  the  architecture.  It  is  a  dream  of  soaring  circles. 
If  the  building  could  only  be  turned  upside  down,  and  the 
actors  could  play  in  this  flashing  bowl,  while  the  audience 
looked  down  upon  them — ! 

The  whole  house,  its  innumerable  corridors,  its  foyers  and 
promenades,  the  walls  of  the  auditorium,  the  ceiling,  the 
capitals*  of  the  columns  that  support  the  dome,  the  dome  itself 
— every  inch  of  the  whole  is  dominated  by  a  single  decorative 
motifs  a  very  shoddy,  cheap  motif.  This  is  a  pendant, 
stalactite  arch,  borrowed  from  the  Moorish  architecture  of 
Spain,  and  reduced  to  the  lowest  terms  of  mechanical  rudeness. 
The  theater  is  of  concrete  and  stucco,  and  this  dull  shape  is 
repeated  endlessly  and  tediously,  as  if  it  had  been  scalloped  out 
by  a  machine.  Only  in  the  dome,  or  when  it  is  no  more  than 
hinted  at  in  certain  wall  surfaces,  does  this  shape  do  anything 
but  bore  and  depress.    On  top  of  this,  Poelzig  had  stained  the 

166 


^^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND" 

walls  of  many  corridors  and  rooms  in  a  yawping  red,  and 
turned  the  main  foyer  into  a  ghastly  sea-green  cavern.  The 
theater  is  nervous,  horrific,  clangorous,  glowering.  There  is 
nothing  fountain-like.  No  spirit  wells  up  in  beauty.  There 
is  no  dignity  and  no  glory. 

The  fault  may  not  be  Poelzig's,  but  the  lighting  of  the  stage 
and  orchestra  seems  unfortunately  handled.  Some  of  the 
lights  for  the  inner  stage  are  placed  in  front  of  the  arch  of  the 
proscenium  instead  of  behind  it,  and  thus  they  illuminate  it, 
and  emphasize  something  that  ought  not  to  be  there  at  all,  let 
alone  pointed  out.  The  lights  for  the  orchestra  originally  came 
wholly  from  the  lower  edge  of  the  dome.  It  was  necessary, 
however,  to  supply  more,  and  they  have  been  placed  in  an  ugly 
red  hood,  which  sticks  out  from  the  proscenium  with  no  relation 
to  the  rest  of  the  house.  The  lights  in  the  dome  stab  with 
a  glorious  brilliance  5  the  great  beams  seem  to  descend  unend- 
ingly before  they  reach  the  tiny  figures  of  the  actors,  and  spot 
them  out  of  the  darkness.  But  these  lights  make  the  first 
mistake  of  trying  to  hide  themselves,  and  the  second  mistake 
of  not  succeeding  in  doing  so.  How  much  better  it  would  be 
if  they  were  treated  frankly  as  part  of  the  theater;  if  their 
source  were  admitted  j  if  these  lamps  were  hung  in  great 
formal  chandeliers  made  a  part  of  the  decorative  design  of  the 
production.  For  Romain  Rolland's  Danton  the  astute  Ernst 
Stern  hung  huge  lanterns  over  the  scene  of  the  revolutionary 

167 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

tribunal  3  it  was  a  method  that  should  have  been  perpetuated. 

The  productions  that  Reinhardt  made  are  no  longer  to  be 
seen  in  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  for  repertory  vanished  from 
his  theaters  along  with  Reinhardt.    You  hear,  however,  of 
many  interesting  and  beautiful  things  in  Danton^  in  (Edipus^ 
in  Hamlet^  in  Julius  Ccesar^  in  Hauptmann's  Florian  Geyer, 
But  you  see  no  such  things  now,  or  at  least  we  did  not  see  them 
when  we  were  in  Berlin.    We  saw  the  orchestra  filled  with 
seats — perhaps  to  swell  the  meager  seating  capacity  of  three 
thousand  which  was  all  Poelzig  could  include  after  he  had 
wasted  front  space  on  rows  of  boxes  and  wide-spaced  chairs,  and 
perhaps  because  the  new  directors  feared  to  use  that  glorious 
and  terrible  playing  floor.    We  saw  the  forestage  shrunk  to  a 
platform  jutting  out  perhaps  twenty  feet.    We  saw  a  tedious 
performance  of  Die  V ersunkene  Glocke^  with  the  action  shoved 
into  the  realistic  proscenium,  with  the  scenic  artist  fooling 
about  with  sloppily  expressionist  forms,  and  with  the  mountain 
spirit  hopping  down  the  hillside  with  a  resounding  wooden 
thump.    We  saw  HebbePs  Judith  done  with  much  more  ef- 
fectiveness, though  without  real  daring  or  vision. 

Judith^  however,  shows  some  of  the  possibilities  of  such  a 
theater.  The  beginning  strikes  in  on  the  imagination  with 
the  impact  of  the  shaft  of  light  that  beats  down  on  Holofernes, 
sitting  like  some  idol  on  his  throne.  Though  he  is  almost  back 
to  the  curtain  line,  instead  of  out  in  the  midst  of  the  people,  he 

168 


The  Inner  Stage  of  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  as 
set  for  the  gates  of  Holofernes'  palace.  Designed 
by  Ernst  Schiitte. 


^^THEATER  OF  THE  FIVE  THOUSAND" 

drives  home  the  effect  of  seeing  life  in  the  round  which  such  a 
theater  can  give.  Here  is  talking  sculpture.  The  costumer, 
as  v^ell  as  the  actor,  is  given  a  new  problem:  the  problem  of 
clothes  and  the  body  that,  like  a  statue,  must  mean  something 
from  every  angle,  must  have  beauty  and  significance  from  the 
back  as  much  as  from  the  front.  The  costume  of  Holofernes, 
at  least,  achieved  this.  The  actor  has  another  problem,  the 
problem  of  a  different  movement  and  a  different  speech,  move- 
ment slower  and  grander,  or  else  long  and  swift,  speech  that 
is  more  sonorous,  more  elaborately  spaced.  The  actor's  part — 
in  spite  of  rather  second-rate  players — is  the  part  best  done  at 
the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus.  There  is  a  natural  aptitude  in 
the  German  player  for  the  grand,  slow  speech,  the  roaring 
tempest.  It  is  like  the  aptitude  of  the  German  people  for  the 
grand  slow  play.  They  like  drive,  rather  than  speed.  They 
want  to  hear  dull  sonorous  platitudes  driven  out  by  sheer  belly- 
muscle. 

There  is  one  thing  very  beautiful  in  Judith  and  in  this 
theater.  It  is  the  way  a  player  can  come  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  forestage,  and  stand  there  alone,  stabbed  at  by  a  great 
white  light,  surrounded  first  by  emptiness,  and  beyond  that 
by  crowds,  a  brave  figure  alone  in  a  great  dim  space.  That  is 
something  you  cannot  feel  in  the  chummy  confines  of  a  picture- 
frame. 

The  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  is  a  gigantic  failure  if  you  look 

169 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

at  it  with  vision — and  also  a  great  portent.  The  place  is  ugly, 
and  its  purpose  now  debased,  yet  it  hints  at  how  beautiful  a 
great,  formal  theater  could  be,  how  moving  and  inspiring  its 
drama.    Even  in  the  wreckage,  the  idea  still  lives. 

And  if  you  try  to  bring  a  little  of  that  same  vision  to  the 
spectacle  of  the  man  who  made  this  failure,  and  who  ran  away, 
you  cannot  deny  an  admiration  for  the  courage  to  give  up,  to 
admit  defeat,  and  then  to  go  to  the  church,  and  to  try  to  do 
there,  in  the  sanctified  birthplace  of  the  modern  theater,  some- 
thing to  lift  the  spirit  as  high  as  the  theater  of  the  five  thousand 
was  to  have  lifted  it. 


170 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE  THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

SIZE  is  no  mania  with  the  French.  They  do  not  insist 
on  buildings  that  are  taller  than  those  of  any  other 
nation,  an  empire  that  is  larger,  ambitions  and  dreams 
mightier  and  more  terrible.  So  perhaps  it  was  only  natural 
that  when  a  Frenchman  wanted  to  present  actors  in  a  new 
relationship  to  their  audience,  he  should  choose  for  his  theater 
a  little  hall  in  the  Street  of  the  Old  Dovecot  instead  of  a  circus 
or  a  park. 

Doubtless  there  were  many  reasons  why  Jacques  Copeau's 
theater  had  to  be  small.  A  potent  one  may  have  been  economy, 
a  thing  that  accounts  for  the  little  theater  movement  far  more 
than  any  theories  of  intimacy.  The  question  of  repertory  also 
may  have  had  weight.  There  are  many  sizes  of  drama,  and 
there  are  special  repertories  for  special  theaters;  but  many  more 
plays  are  possible  for  a  theater  of  five  hundred  seats  than  for  a 
theater  of  five  thousand.  The  Trojan  Women  can  be  played 
to  one  hundred  and  twenty-nine  people  in  the  Toy  Theater  of 
Boston,  as  Maurice  Browne  proved;  but  Le  Misanthrope  is  im- 
possible in  the  Yale  Bowl. 

171 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Copeau's  theater  had  to  be  small,  not  only  because  he  had 
little  money  and  a  great  love  of  all  sorts  of  plays,  but  also  be- 
cause— and  this  counted  more  than  even  the  French  liking  for 
the  moderate  and  the  exact — the  thing  he  was  interested  in  was 
the  actor  and  not  a  grandiose  idea.  He  ended  by  creating  the 
first  presentational  playhouse  in  the  modern  world,  by  main- 
taining for  a  long  time  the  most  radical,  and  by  achieving  after 
some  years  the  most  successful.  But  he  began  by  looking  for 
some  place  for  his  actors  to  act.  They  were  to  be  a  company 
of  fresh,  sensitive,  intelligent  spirits  bringing  an  intense  and 
honest  art  to  those  who  might  care  for  it.  Copeau  had  found 
his  actors  in  all  manner  of  places  besides  the  routine  theaters. 
He  had  talked  to  them  about  everything  but  make-up,  curtain 
calls,  and  how  to  be  natural  on  the  stage.  He  had  played  with 
them  and  worked  with  them  in  the  country,  rehearsing  the  first 
pieces  of  the  repertory  in  a  barn.  He  did  not  intend  to  dump 
them  down  into  one  of  the  ordinary  theaters  of  Paris.  Copeau 
proposed  to  take  the  hall  that  his  resources  permitted,  and  to 
make  it  over  to  suit  the  spirit  of  his  company.  He  could  build 
no  ideal  theater,  but  he  could  make  one  in  which  his  actors 
would  escape  the  realisms  and  the  pretenses  of  the  modern 
theater,  and  would  play  to  and  with  the  audience  as  their  spirit 
demanded. 

And  so  we  have  the  Theater  du  Vieux-Colombier.  It  is  not 
at  all  like  the  hideous  theater-hall  that  was  there  before.    It  is 

172 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

not  quite  as  it  was  when  Copeau  closed  his  first  season  before  the 
war.  It  is  not  in  the  least  like  the  Garrick  Theater^  which 
he  remade  in  New  York  in  1917j  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is 
not  so  good.  It  is  not  very  charming  in  its  shape  or  its 
decorations,  and  Copeau  is  as  careless  as  Reinhardt  about  things 
like  good  painting  and  clean  walls.  But  this  Vieux-Colombier 
is  a  distinguished  and  a  jolly  place  all  the  same,  the  happiest  and 
the  healthiest  theater  west  of  Vienna. 

It  is  hard  to  know  where  to  begin  a  description  of  this  curious 
playhouse.  Suppose  you  had  never  been  to  the  Vieux-Colom- 
bier, but  suppose  you  knew  that  this  was  a  theater  without  the 
illusion  of  Realism,  and  suppose  you  sought  for  the  thing  that 
would  tell  you  this  the  quickest.  What  would  you  see? 
Probably  the  steps  that  lead  from  the  stage  to  the  forestage, 
and  even  from  the  forestage  to  the  seats  of  the  audience. 
There  are  no  footlights,  and  so  you  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  square,  firm  edge  where  the  stage  floor  ends.  This  edge 
bends  into  a  large  curve  in  the  middle,  with  three  curved  steps 
below,  and  it  angles  out  at  the  sides  to  where  smaller  steps  join 
those  of  the  middle  on  an  ample  forestage.  These  steps  and 
the  edge  of  the  stage  do  more  than  any  one  thing  in  the  theater 
to  signal  that  you  are  not  looking  into  a  picture-frame.  Even 
when  they  are  not  used,  as  in  Les  Freres  Karamazov^  these  steps 
keep  you  warily  alive  to  that  fact. 

When  you  examine  the  theater  more  closely  you  discover  that 

173 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

there  is  no  proscenium.  The  nearest  thing  to  it  is  the  last  of  the 
arches  which  hold  up  the  roof  of  the  auditorium.  There  is  a 
curtain,  to  be  sure,  but  it  does  not  fall  behind  pillars,  and  it  does 
not  cover  the  forestage.  It  descends  at  that  point  where  the 
walls  of  the  auditorium  become  the  walls  of  the  stage,  and  it 
merely  serves  to  hide  one  end  of  this  long  room  while  the  stage 
hands  make  small  changes  in  the  permanent  setting. 

The  permanent  setting,  like  the  theater  itself,  is  an  experi- 
mental product  of  the  attempt  to  provide  what  the  actors  need. 
It  is  really  no  more  than  a  balcony  placed  against  the  back  wall, 
with  an  arched  opening  in  the  middle,  and  with  walls  at  the 
sides  that  let  the  actors,  who  have  gone  out  through  the  arch, 
get  off  stage  unseen.  This  balcony  is  so  solidly  built  that  it  can- 
not be  taken  out,  but  certain  portions  are  alterable.  The 
changes  in  setting  are  managed  by  changing  the  width  of  the 
arch  or  the  line  of  the  top  of  the  balcony,  by  adding  doors,  steps 
at  one  side,  or  railings^  and  particularly  by  placing  significant 
properties  or  screens  upon  the  stage.  Louis  Jouvet,  stage  direc- 
tor as  well  as  Copeau's  best  actor,  has  done  many  ingenious 
things  to  make  his  settings  varied  enough  and  characteristic 
enough  without  losing  the  permanent  thing  that  is  common  to 
them  all,  and  that  aids  in  banishing  realistic  illusion.  A  detail 
that  shows  the  working  of  his  mind  is  to  be  found  in  the 
screens  that  he  uses  to  create  a  room  in  Les  Freres  Karamazov ; 
by  giving  them  two  or  three  inches  of  thickness  and  a  certain 

174- 


L.es  Freres  Karnma%ov:  the  Gypsy  Inn.  This 
sketch  and  the  following  one  show  the  perma- 
nent skeleton-setting  of  Copeau's  Theatre  du 
Vieux-Colombier  in  Paris.  Here,  in  an  arrange- 
ment of  paneled  screens  Louis  Jouvet  has  caught 
the  mood  of  the  scene  without  reference  to  de- 
tails of  "atmosphere." 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

amount  of  molding,  he  has  escaped  the  impression  of  the  bare, 
the  unsubstantial,  and  the  untheatrical  which  the  screens  of 
other  designers  produce. 

The  balcony  is  a  most  useful  feature.  It  was  not  accident 
that  put  a  balcony  in  the  Elizabethan  theater  or  made  the 
Greeks  use  the  theologium.  It  serves  a  practical  purpose,  of 
course,  in  any  scheme  of  permanent  setting,  for  it  makes  it  un- 
necessary to  build  balconies  for  scenes  that  especially  call  for 
them.  A  good  deal  more  important  to  the  director  is  the  move- 
ment up  and  down,  as  well  as  sideways  and  back  and  forth, 
which  it  gives  him.  With  the  forestage,  the  main  stage,  and 
the  balcony,  Copeau  has  almost  as  useful  a  base  for  com- 
posing action  in  three  dimensions  as  Jessner  has  in  the  steps 
which  he  uses  in  various  productions  in  Berlin. 

Sheldon  Cheney  has  called  Copeau's  stage  a  "naked  stage." 
It  is  a  happy  accident  of  language  that,  when  you  call  it  a  con- 
crete stage,  you  describe  the  material  of  which  it  is  made  and 
the  feeling  of  sharp,  definite  statement  which  resides  in  every- 
thing done  upon  it.  The  wall  at  the  right  of  the  audience  is 
solid,  the  wall  at  the  back,  too;  the  ceiling  of  the  stage  has  some 
openings  between  steel  girders,  but  it  is  more  like  the  floor  than 
the  "flies"  of  the  average  theater.  Only  in  the  left  wall  of  the 
stage  are  there  any  openings.  Through  these  the  actors  man- 
age to  exit  into  the  next  building.  The  floor  of  the  stage,  ex- 
cept at  the  edges,  is  even  more  adamant.    It  will  not  yield  to 

175 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

pleas  for  atmosphere,  illusion  or  any  of  the  gewgaws  of  our  the- 
ater. It  is  solid  concrete.  Copeau  wanted  to  give  the  actor's 
feet  a  sense  of  support  which  they  cannot  get  from  yielding  and 
resounding  wood.  At  the  sides  is  a  small  section  in  timber 
which  permits  the  use  of  a  stairway  to  a  lower  room  as  in  The 
S,  S.  Tenacity  or  hes  Freres  Karamazov,  In  the  forestage 
are  two  other  openingSj  covered  by  wooden  and  concrete 
slabs. 

Jouvet's  lighting  system  is  ingenious  and  philosophically 
sound,  if  not  altogether  perfect.  Practically  all  the  light 
comes  from  four  large  lamps  hung  in  the  auditorium.  They 
replace  footlights,  borderlights,  and  floods  from  the  sides. 
Illumination  from  the  auditorium  itself  is  essential  to  good 
stage  lighting j  the  footlights  are  an  unhappy  makeshift. 
David  Belasco  very  wisely  uses  a  battery  of  lamps  hidden  in 
the  face  of  the  first  balcony.  In  German  theaters,  the  huge 
6000-candlepower  bulbs  developed  since  the  war,  tempt  direc- 
tors to  inefficient  and  distracting  lighting  from  the  ventilator 
above  the  main  chandelier  in  the  roof  of  the  auditorium. 
Neither  the  latter  method  nor  Belasco's  is  wholly  satisfactory 
in  a  theater  that  forswears  representation,  a  theater  like  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus  or  the  Vieux-Colombier  or  the  Redout- 
ensaal  in  Vienna.  Electric  light  on  the  stage  begins  as  an 
imitation  of  the  real.  If  a  table  is  illuminated  by  a  large  light 
in  the  first  border,  there  must  be  a  lamp  above  the  table  in  such 

176 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

a  position  as  to  suggest  that  it  is  doing  all  the  work.  The 
next  step  is  to  use  light  for  illumination  and  composition — 
for  beauty,  in  fact — without  bothering  to  try  to  make  it  seem 
to  come  from  some  natural  source  in  the  setting.  When  such 
light  comes  from  the  auditorium  we  may  get  composition,  but 
we  also  get  a  throw-back  to  the  source  of  the  light  itself.  The 
ray  carries  our  eye  up  to  some  lens-lamp  trying  unsuccessfully 
to  hide  in  the  bottom  of  the  dome  of  the  Grosses  Schauspiel- 
haus,  or  in  the  top  of  the  ceiling  of  the  Burgtheater.  A  new 
problem  arises.  It  should  be  answered  by  making  the  source 
frankly  visible.  The  hoods  themselves  of  large  bulbs  have  a 
shape  that  would  make  them  interesting  and  not  without  sig- 
nificance in  the  Grosses  Schauspielhausj  or  a  new  shape  could 
be  supplied  to  harmonize  with  architecture  or  setting.  In  the 
Redoutensaal  we  find  glorious  old  crystal  chandeliers  lighting 
the  stage — an  accidental  result  of  the  fact  that  the  Viennese 
government  converted  Maria  Theresa's  ballroom  into  a  play- 
house. In  the  Vieux-Colombier  Jouvet  makes  no  bones  about 
admitting  where  his  light  is  coming  from.  He  places  the 
bulbs  in  octagonal  lanterns,  which,  by  revolving  on  an  axis, 
present  different  colored  sides  for  the  light  to  pass  through; 
the  lanterns  may  also  be  moved  in  such  directions  as  to  throw 
the  light  upon  any  desired  part  of  the  stage.  These  lanterns 
are  frankly  visible;  and,  though  they  are  not  a  pleasing  shape, 
they  fit  esthetically  with  the  theory  of  this  theater.    Here  is 

177 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

electric  lighting  presented  at  last  as  the  thing  it  really  is,  not 
as  an  imitation  of  something  else. 

The  greatest  faults  of  the  Vieux-Colombier  over  which 
Copeau  had  control,  and  which  he  could  easily  have  avoided, 
lie  in  the  color  and  quality  of  painting  on  the  stage.  The  con- 
crete and  the  cream  of  the  auditorium  take  warm  lights  5  but  in 
portions  of  the  stage  itself,  Copeau  has  used  a  cold  gray  that 
is  surely  unfortunate.  Much  that  you  see  is  shoddy.  If  the 
paint  chips  off  a  corner,  nobody  bothers  to  replace  it.  Rivet 
heads  and  structural  iron  show  when  they  have  no  relation 
to  the  shapes  on  the  stage.  Now  it  is  a  good  thing  not  to 
spend  too  much  energy  on  the  physical  side  of  the  theater,  but 
there  is  a  difference  between  austerity  and  slovenliness. 

Actual  productions,  animated  by  the  actors  and  graced  with 
some  of  Jouvet's  scenic  arrangements,  do  a  great  deal  to  make 
the  stage  wholly  attractive.  The  S,  S.  Tenacity^  d,  realistic 
play  with  a  French  cafe  for  its  setting,  makes  interesting  de- 
mands on  this  non-realistic  stage.  The  demands  are  met,  and 
met  successfully.  There  is  a  counter  at  one  side  with  racks 
for  bottles,  a  wooden  door  in  the  arch  at  the  back,  a  table  in 
the  center,  and  above  it — the  mark  of  Realism — a  shaded 
lamp,  from  which  a  great  deal  of  the  stage  light  comes.  With 
the  actors  giving  us  the  sense  of  French  life  which  was  miss- 
ing in  the  New  York  and  Viennese  productions,  we  have  here 
a  performance  which  might  almost  be  enclosed  in  a  proscenium 

178 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

frame.  But  there  is  in  the  acting,  as  in  the  setting,  much  that 
is  non-realistic,  much  that  seems  representational  only  by  con- 
trast with  the  dominating  spirit  and  physique  of  the  theater 
and  its  people. 

In  the  playlet  that  goes  with  The  S.  S,  Tenacity y  Merimee's 
Le  Carrosse  du  St.-Sacrementy  we  are  back  in  a  piece  from  the 
romantic  period,  a  comedy  of  clear  and  artificial  vigor.  A 
screen  and  some  hangings  with  a  southern  flash  to  them  set 
the  stage  for  eighteenth-century  Peru.  Copeau  himself  has 
the  same  Punch-like  visage  that  he  presents  to  you  in  his 
own  study,  but  now  he  manages  to  make  you  think  him  a  Span- 
ish puppet,  an  exasperated  and  wily  doll.  The  same  Punch 
appears  in  Les  Freres  KaramazoVy  but  a  Punch  of  the  intellect, 
a  tragic  marionette  dangling  on  the  strings  of  rationalism.  At 
the  end,  when  Ivan  goes  mad,  you  may  see  most  clearly  the 
subtle  exaggeration  which  is  at  the  heart  of  the  acting  of 
Copeau's  company.  The  whirling  body,  the  legs  that  beat  a 
crazy  tattoo  on  the  floor,  the  twisting  head  and  the  boggling 
eyes,  are  none  of  them  copied  from  a  candidate  for  the  asylum. 
They  are  all  an  explanation  of  what  sort  of  lines  in  the  figure 
of  a  crazy  man  would  strike  the  imagination,  what  angles  and 
movements  would  most  sharply  indicate  lunacy. 

Karamazov  is  effectively  composed  on  this  stage  by  a  few 
draperies  for  the  first  scene,  a  line  of  curtains  hiding  the  whole 
stage  and  begging  the  question  in  the  second  scene,  a  flight  of 

179 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

steps  for  the  hall  of  the  Karamazovs,  and  two  heavy  screens 
for  the  inn.  There  is  nothing  so  fine  as  the  interminable  steps 
that  lead  up  from  the  balcony  at  the  Garrick  to  the  wretched 
room  of  Smerdiakov3  but  there  is  enough  improvement  in  the 
very  excellent  acting  seen  in  New  York,  to  make  up  for  this. 
Jouvet's  father  is  gigantically  goodj  set  beside  his  Aguecheek, 
it  puts  this  young  man  among  the  most  interesting  actors  of 
Europe.  Paul  CEttly,  as  the  eldest  brother,  plays  the  striking 
scene  in  the  inn  of  the  gypsies  with  uncommon  vigor,  and  the 
stage  direction  sweeps  the  scene  along  to  a  burning  climax. 
The  intensity  of  the  actors  in  this  play,  added  to  the  intensity 
of  the  play  itself,  demonstrates  how  completely  a  formal  thea- 
ter of  this  kind,  and  a  type  of  acting  which  is  a  reasoned  sort 
of  explanation,  rather  than  a  thing  of  life  or  of  acting,  can 
stand  up  beside  the  Realism  of  our  directors  when  it  is  at 
its  best. 

In  Twelfth  Night  you  find  the  company  clear  out  of  the 
shackles  of  realistic  or  semi-realistic  plays,  and  happy  in  the 
beautiful  playhouse  of  fantasy.  And  here  the  quality  of  expo- 
sition— which  you  may  trace  back  to  Copeau's  profession  of 
critic,  and  forward  through  the  days  given  to  the  reading  and 
study  and  analysis  of  each  new  play — has  almost  altogether  dis- 
appeared. The  playing  is  spontaneous,  or  it  is  nothing. 
Suzanne  Binges  Viola  is  a-quiver  with  radiance  and  wonder. 
Jean  Le  Goff ^s  Orsino  is  no  such  God-favored  performance,  but 

180 


La  Carrosse  du  Saint-Sacrement  at  the  Vieux- 
Colombier:  another  arrangement  of  Copeau's  per- 
manent setting. 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

his  eyes  are  lit  with  an  ecstasy  of  love-sickness.  The  come- 
dians are  far  from  Englishmen;  but  their  creations  are  im- 
mensely funny:  Jouvet's  gently  gawking  Aguecheek,  Romain 
Bouquet's  shaven-headed,  almost  Oriental  Sir  Toby,  Robert 
Allard's  extraordinary  clown,  the  finest  either  of  us  had  ever 
seen.  It  is  interesting,  for  once,  to  see  Malvolio  put  in  his  place 
as  a  character,  and  not  given  the  star's  spotlight  to  preen  in; 
it  might  be  a  more  satisfactory  arrangement  if  Albert  Savry 
could  be  funnier  in  his  dry  Puritanism. 

Twelfth  Night  triumphs  at  the  Vieux-Colombier  by  virtue 
of  the  spirit  of  the  actors,  and  the  vision  of  the  director.  The 
costuming  is  bad — an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  make  Illyria,  as  it 
might  well  be,  a  land  of  no  time  or  place  but  Poetry;  and  the 
setting  is  no  more  than  bright  and  freakish  in  a  Greenwich 
Village  way.  But  in  the  costumes  and  up  and  down  the  setting 
these  players  frisk,  weaving  patterns  of  beauty  and  fun  that  link 
them  into  the  true  spirit  of  the  play.  The  curtain  is  there  at 
convenient  times  to  make  the  forestage  into  a  neutral  zone  for 
duke  or  sea  captain,  and  between  this  forestage  and  the  bal- 
conied space  behind  there  is  room  for  all  of  Shakespeare's  play 
to  race  along  just  as  he  wrote  it.  With  the  trap  door  in  the 
forestage  to  act  as  cellar,  Malvolio  can  be  incarcerated  below- 
stairs  and  happily  out  of  sight — much  as  Shakespeare  intended. 

Copeau  is  a  believer  in  gymnastics.  (He  is  also  a  believer 
in  improvisation,  a  school  of  playwrights,  and  other  things 

181 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

whose  absence  makes  him  grow  impatient  with  his  theater). 
Through  months  and  years  of  strenuous  labor,  he  is  training 
half  a  dozen  young  people  of  his  own  school  to  have  bodies  that 
are  as  well  under  control  as  a  gymnast's.  The  performances  of 
the  Vieux-Colombier  draw  on  players  not  so  well  trained,  but 
they  show  what  physical  command  can  accomplish.  Here  you 
see  acting  that  makes  you  think  again  of  sculpture  and  its  rela- 
tion to  the  new  theater. 

Copeau's  people  can  meet  the  test  which  the  theater  with  a 
Greek  orchestra,  like  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  exacts. 
They  can  play  "in  the  round."  Their  bodies  can  be  seen  from 
all  sides,  and  still  keep  expressiveness  and  beauty.  They 
have  learned  to  master  their  bodies,  as  well  as  their  voices,  and 
they  are  able  to  make  the  lines  of  arms  and  torsos  and  knees 
speak  directly  to  the  audience.  When  Jouvet  sharply  under- 
lines and  almost  caricatures  the  salient  shape  of  old  Karamazov 
he  is  able  to  escape  from  ordinary  representation,  which  may  or 
may  not  make  its  point,  and  he  is  able  to  push  his  conception 
of  the  wicked,  vital  old  man  into  almost  direct  physical  contact 
with  the  audience.  I  have  often  wondered  when  the  actor 
would  learn  the  lesson  of  sculpture.  There  were  centuries  of 
almost  literal  representation,  with  the  inner  expression  of  the 
artist  and  the  artist's  sense  of  Form  struggling  furiously  to  im- 
pose itself  upon  Reality,  and  failing  more  often  than  succeed- 
ing.   Then,  with  Rodin  came  the  sense  that  sculpture  could 

182 


THEATER  OF  THE  THREE  HUNDRED 

make  representation  a  distinctly  secondary  matter.  There 
could  be  expression  first,  and  resemblance  afterwards,  if  at 
all.  Idea,  which  is  one  sort  of  Form,  enters  the  clay  with 
Stanislas  Szukalsky,  Expression  and  idea,  poised  in  the  human 
body,  begin  to  inform  acting  directly  and  openly  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  Vieux-Colombier.  The  first  presentational  theater 
adds  the  medium  of  the  body  to  the  medium  of  the  voice. 


183 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL— A  PLAYHOUSE  OF 
PERMANENCE 

IN  Vienna  on  Christmas  Day,  1921,  there  were  no  matches 
in  the  match-stands  of  the  cafes  and  no  paper  in  the  hotel 
writing  rooms.  Some  of  the  well-to-do  and  the  reck- 
lessly soft-hearted  had  begun  to  feel  that  they  could  afford  to 
keep  pet  dogs  again;  but  there  were  no  silk  stockings  on  those 
most  un-Teuton  ankles  that  paraded  the  Burgring.  You  may 
guess,  therefore,  that  there  was  no  butter  on  the  tables  of  the 
middle  classes,  and  no  milk  in  the  houses  of  those  who,  by  a 
curious  clairvoyance  of  language,  are  called  the  working  people. 

Two  nights  later  three  or  four  hundred  citizens,  with  bits  of 
bread  and  meat  wrapped  in  paper  and  stowed  in  their  pockets, 
could  be  seen  seated  in  a  great  and  splendid  ballroom  of  Maria 
Theresa's  palace,  under  the  light  of  crystal  chandeliers  and  the 
glow  of  priceless  Gobelins,  watching  the  first  performance.  The 
Marriage  of  Figaro^  in  a  theater  a  stride  ahead  of  any  in 
Europe. 

They  had  paid  good  money  at  one  of  the  doors  of  that  extra- 
ordinary old  building,  the  Hofburg,  which  rambles  from  the 

184 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

Opera  to  the  Burgtheater  half  across  the  shopping  district  of 
Vienna.  After  they  had  parted  from  two  or  three  thousand 
crowns  apiece^  they  had  wound  up  stone  stairways  between 
white  walls  and  twists  of  old  ironwork,  passed  through  cloak- 
rooms where  princesses  once  left  their  wraps,  and  a  supper  room 
where  artists  may  cheerfully  go  mad  over  molding,  pediment 
and  mirror,  and  reached  at  last  the  Theater  in  dem  Redouten- 
saal.  They  found  one  of  the  handsomest  baroque  rooms  in  Eu- 
rope holding  within  its  beauty  both  a  stage  and  an  auditorium. 
A  row  of  Gobelin  tapestries  filled  the  lower  reaches  of  the  walls. 
Above  were  moldings  and  pilasters,  cornices  and  pargeting, 
spandrels  and  pediments,  fillets  and  panelling,  an  ordered  rich- 
ness of  ornament  that  held  suspended  in  its  gray  and  golden 
haze  mirrors  that  echoed  beauty,  and  chandeliers  radiant  with 
light.  At  one  end  of  the  room,  beneath  great  doors  and  a  bal- 
cony which  the  architect  had  planned  in  1744,  was  a  new  struc- 
ture; it  broke  the  line  of  the  Gobelins,  but  continued  the  panel- 
ling, freshened  to  cream  and  gold,  in  a  curving  wall  across  a 
platform  and  in  double  stairs  leading  to  the  balcony.  With 
man's  unfailing  instinct  for  the  essence  of  life,  the  audience 
promptly  identified  this  roofless  shell  as  a  stage.  There  was  a 
platform,  of  course,  but  there  was  no  proscenium.  There  were 
doors  and  windows  in  the  curving  wall,  but  no  woodwings, 
borders,  flats^  or  backdrops.  There  was  even  a  something  along 
the  front  of  the  platform  whicH  might  conceal  footlights,  but 

185 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  that  looked  more  like  scenery  than 
a  row  of  screens. 

Such  is  the  room  in  which  the  forces  of  the  Austrian  State 
Opera  House  have  been  giving  The  Marriage  of  Figaro  and 
The  Barber  of  Sevilley  and  in  which  Reinhardt  began  late 
in  1922  the  most  interesting  experiment  of  his  most* 
experimental  life — the  presentation  of  plays  under  a  unique 
condition  of  theatrical  intimacy  between  actor  and  audience. 

It  is  an  odd  spectacle,  this  of  Vienna,  the  bankrupt,  going 
lightheartedly  out  on  the  most  advanced  experiment  in  produc- 
tion yet  attempted  in  Europe.  One  of  its  oddest  angles  is  that 
the  man  who  made  an  empress's  ballroom  over  into  a  theater 
is  a  socialist — President  Vetter  of  the  Staatstheaterverwaltung, 
the  bureau  under  the  republic  which  controls  the  State  play- 
houses. The  conversion  was  not  an  easy  matter.  Opponents 
rose  up  inside  the  State  theaters  and  outside  them.  Vienna  was 
engaged  for  months  upon  one  of  those  artistic  quarrels  from 
which  it  is  always  drawing  new  health  and  spirit. 

When  President  Vetter  had  won  his  point  he  plunged  briskly 
ahead  at  the  work  of  making  over  the  ballroom  into  a  very 
special  kind  of  theater  without  marring  its  beauty.  Part  of 
the  old  balcony  came  out,  mirrors  replaced  doors  and  windows 
down  the  sides  of  the  hall,  and  Oberbaurat  Sebastien  Heinrich 
set  to  work  on  the  problem  of  creating  a  permanent  architec-^ 
tural  setting  for  the  stage  which  should  harmonize  with  the 

186 


The  Redoutensaal  in  Vienna  as  arranged  for  the 
£rst  scene  of  The  Marriage  of  Figaro.  The 
room  called  for  in  the  text  is  indicated  by  a  row 
of  crimson  screens  set  straight  across  the  stage  and 
pierced  in  the  center  by  a  door.  In  the  scheme  of 
production  indicated  by  this  unique  environment 
such  a  mere  indication  is  sufficient  to  establish 
setting  and  mood. 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

lovely  room,  yet  stand  out  from  it  significantly  enough  to  center 
attention  on  the  acting  space.  Meantime  President  Vetter  took 
another  look  at  the  Gobelins  which  had  satisfied  Maria  Theresa, 
and  decided  that  they  weren't  quite  good  enough ;  others  had  to 
be  found.  Even  now  he  is  a  little  doubtful  about  those  on  the 
right  hand  wall. 

The  work  of  the  Oberbaurat  is  admirable.  He  has  con- 
tinued the  molding  above  the  Gobelins,  and  made  it  the  top 
of  the  curving  wall  which  is  the  background  for  the  stage. 
This  shell  is  broken  at  each  side  by  a  casement,  which  holds 
either  a  door  or  a  window,  and  two  masked  openings.  Through 
one  of  these,  close  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  a  curtain  the  height 
of  the  wall  is  run  out  to  hide  changes  in  the  screens  and  furni- 
ture upon  the  stage.  At  the  back,  where  the  shell  curves  close 
to  the  old  balcony  of  the  ballroom,  the  State  architect  has 
placed  a  pair  of  graceful  steps,  which  meet  at  the  top,  and 
provide,  underneath,  an  exit  to  the  rear.  For  lighting,  there 
are  the  foots  in  their  unobtrusive  trough,  and  small  floods  placed 
in  the  gap  where  the  curtain  moves  ^  but  by  far  the  larger  part 
of  the  illumination  comes  from  the  seven  chandeliers  in  the 
ceiling  of  the  hall.  The  chandeliers  towards  the  rear  are  some- 
times turned  half  down  or  even  off,  but  essentially  it  is  the  same 
light  which  illumines  both  players  and  audience. 

This  light  and  the  formal  and  permanent  character  of  the 
stage  stamp  the  Redoutensaal  with  a  character  as  old  as  it  is 

187 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

fresh.  This  theater  goes  beyond  Copeau's  Vieux-Colombier  in 
the  attempt  to  re-establish  in  our  century  that  active  relation- 
ship between  actor  and  spectator  which  existed  in  the  great 
theaters  of  other  centuries,  and  towards  which  the  finest  minds 
of  the  theater  have  been  striving.  Here  is  a  stage  freed  from 
all  the  associations  of  modern  stage-setting,  innocent  of  ma- 
chinery or  illusions,  essentially  theatrical.  Actors  must  be 
actors  upon  its  boards.  They  cannot  try  to  represent  actual 
people  5  they  can  only  present  themselves  to  the  audience  as 
artists  who  will  give  them  a  vision  of  reality. 

This  is  comparatively  easy  in  opera.  There  is  no  realistic 
illusion  about  a  valet  who  sings  a  soliloquy  on  his  master's  more 
intimate  habits.  People  who  quarrel  in  verse  to  a  merry  tune 
are  most  unlikely  to  be  mistaken  for  the  neighbors  next  door. 
With  music  and  the  stage  of  the  Redoutensaal  to  aid  them,  the 
singers  of  the  State  Opera  manage  to  give  a  roughly  presenta- 
tional performance.  In  direction  there  is  nothing  notable  to 
be  seen,  unless  it  is  the  wedding  scene  of  Figaro  with  the  Count 
striding  up  and  down  across  the  front  of  the  stage,  opposed  in 
figure  and  in  action  to  the  plaguing  women  above  upon  the 
stairs.  The  acting  possibilities  of  this  stage,  however,  are  very 
great.  Reinhardt  saw  them  vividly  in  the  summer  of  1922, 
while  he  was  makng  preparations  for  his  five  productions  in 
September:  Turandot  by  Gozzi,  Stella  and  Clavigor  by  Goethe, 
Le  Misanthrope  by  Moliere,  and  Dame  Cobalt  by  Calderon. 

188 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

He  saw  the  possibilities  and  the  difficulties  of  acting  also,  and 
he  rejoiced  that  he  was  to  have  old  and  tried  associates  like 
Moissij  Pallenberg  and  Krauss  with  him  once  more  when  he 
began  his  experiment  with  a  theater  far  more  exacting  than  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus,  and  a  technique  of  acting  very  hard  to 
regain  after  so  many  years  of  Realism. 

So  far  as  there  must  be  indications  of  time  and  place  upon 
this  stage,  a  beginning  in  experiment  has  been  made.  It  has 
not  been  a  particularly  good  beginning,  but  it  shows  the  op- 
portunities for  the  artist,  and  also  the  limitations.  They  are 
very  nearly  identical.  It  is  the  business  of  the  scene  designer 
who  works  here  to  draw  from  the  Redoutensaal  itself  the 
motifs  and  colors  which  he  shall  add  to  the  permanent  setting. 
It  is  his  privilege,  using  only  these  things,  to  give  the  scene  just 
the  fillip  of  interest  which  the  play  demands. 

Alfred  Roller,  a  veteran  of  the  scenic  revolt  of  fifteen  years 
ago,  and,  next  to  Reinhardt's  artist,  Ernst  Stern,  the  most  dis- 
tinguished German  scenic  designer  of  his  time,  has  made  the 
screens  and  set  pieces  for  The  Marriage  of  Figaro  and  The 
Barber  of  Seville.  There  is  little  or  no  good  to  be  said  of  his 
work  in  the  latter  piece.  The  screens  with  which  he  indicates 
a  room  in  the  first  act,  and  the  bulky  gate  which  he  sets  down 
across  the  stairs  in  the  second  act,  are  bad  as  to  color,  and  quite 
at  odds  with  the  Redoutensaal.  Obviously  he  could  have  made 
so  much  more  amusing  a  gate  out  of  the  permanent  stairs,  and 

189 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

given  his  scene  a  Spanish  stamp  by  a  circle  of  vivid,  tight- 
packed  flowers  in  the  center.  The  Marriage  of  Figaro  is  much 
better,  though  here  again  Roller  could  have  done  far  better 
if  he  had  turned  his  eyes  up  to  the  walls  above  him.  The 
first  scene,  the  servant's  room,  is  made  by  a  row  of  antique 
screens  of  faded  crimson  placed  well  down  stage.  Through  a 
door  in  the  central  one,  you  see  green  screens,  which,  in  the  sec- 
ond scene  are  to  define  the  room  of  the  wife.  With  an  excel- 
lent sense  of  climax.  Roller  proceeds  from  the  shallow  stage 
of  the  first  scene  to  the  deeper  stage  of  the  second,  and  finally 
sweeps  in  the  whole  permanent  setting  for  the  wedding  in  the 
third  scene.  More  than  that,  he  calls  the  stairs  and  balcony 
into  play,  and  finally  opens  the  great  doors  above  the  balcony 
to  let  us  see  beyond  to  a  room  of  crimson  hangings  and  more 
crystal.  The  last  scene,  the  garden,  is  shoddily  conceived, 
with  a  few  uninteresting  potted  trees,  a  bad  painting  of  Schon- 
brunn  in  the  exit  under  the  steps,  and  a  sickly  attempt  at  moon- 
light from  the  floodlights  and  foots.  Why  not,  you  wonder, 
delicate,  artificial,  gilded  hedges  along  the  walls,  and  fruit 
trees  flattened  on  espaliers  against  the  steps  .^^ 

Unquestionably  the  lighting  problem  in  the  Redoutensaal  is 
not  yet  solved.  Reinhardt  looks  to  solve  it  with  a  large  light 
or  two  concealed  in  the  forward  chandeliers.  This  may  make 
the  illumination  of  the  stage  a  little  more  flexible  and  expres- 
sive j  but  it  is  quite  as  likely  that  the  way  to  light  the  stage  is 

190 


The  first  scene  of  The  Barber  of  Seville  as  given 
in  the  Redoutensaal.  A  not  altogether  successful 
attempt  by  Professor  Roller  to  create  an  archi- 
tectural unit  which  should  suggest  a  Spanish  ex- 
terior while  harmonizing  with  the  decorations  of 
the  ballroom. 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

without  the  least  pretense  at  illusion.  At  any  rate  footlights 
and  lights  from  the  side  are  distressing  reminders  of  the  conven- 
tional theater. 

Almost  as  reminiscent  is  the  curtain  which  slides  out  between 
acts  while  the  stage  hands  move  the  screens.  Why  a  curtain  at 
all — unless  the  curtain  of  darkness?  Why  not  uniformed  at- 
tendants managing  the  simple  matter  of  screens  or  small  set 
pieces  with  the  aplomb  of  actors?  Or  if  there  must  be  a  cur- 
tain, why  a  crimson  sheet  5  why  not  a  hanging  whose  folds  con- 
tinue the  motif  of  the  Gobelins  at  each  side? 

Perhaps  the  most  serious  question  concerned  with  the  phys- 
ical arrangements  of  this  stage  is  whether  there  should  not  be 
some  scheme  of  levels  other  than  floor  and  balcony.  A  lower 
forestage  would  aid  the  director  in  composing  his  people,  and 
getting  movement  and  variety  out  of  this  fixed  and  therefore 
limited  setting.  It  would  also  aid  an  audience  that  is  seated  al- 
most on  a  flat  floor. 

The  sceptic  may  find  other  limitations  in  the  Redoutensaal. 
And  he  will  be  right  if  he  points  out  that  its  atmosphere  is  too 
sharply  artificial  in  its  distinction  to  permit  every  sort  of  play 
to  bo  given  here.  Gorky's  Night  Lodging  might  be  played  in 
the  Redoutensaal  as  a  literally  tremendous  tour  ie  force^  but  it 
would  be  in  the  face  of  spiritual  war  between  the  background 
of  the  stage  and  the  physical  horrors  of  the  slums  which  the 
play  describes.    Plays  for  the  Redoutensaal  must  have  some 

191 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

quality  of  distinction  about  them,  a  great,  clear  emotion  free 
from  the  bonds  of  physical  detail,  a  fantasy  or  a  poetry  as  shin- 
ing as  crystal,  some  artificiality  of  mood,  or  else  an  agreement 
in  period  with  the  baroque.  You  can  imagine  Racine  or 
Corneille  done  perfectly  here,  Euripides  only  by  great  genius. 
The  Weavers  not  at  all.  Nothing  could  suit  Moliere  better, 
or  Beaumarchais  or  the  Restoration  dramatists.  Shakespeare 
could  contribute  Twelfth  'Night  and  A  Midsummer  Night'^s 
Dreamy  perhaps  Romeo  and  Juliet^  but  never  Hamlet.  Here, 
of  course,  is  a  perfect  stage  for  Oscar  Wilde,  a  good  stage  for 
Somerset  Maugham,  A.  A.  Milne,  some  of  Clare  Kummer. 
The  Moscow  Art  Theater  would  have  no  trouble  with  The 
Cherry  Orchard,  More  or  less  at  random,  you  think  of  Bahr's 
Josefhiney  The  School  for  Scandal^  The  Sabine  Women^ 
Lysistratay  The  Mollusc^  A  Marriage  of  Convenience y  The 
Truthy  Prunellay  The  Beggar^s  Of  era.  The  one  impossible 
barrier  to  performance  in  the  Redoutensaal  is  Atmosphere. 
If  a  play  is  drenched  in  the  emotions  of  firesides,  poppy  fields, 
moonlit  gardens  or  natural  physical  things,  it  is  impossible  here. 

These  are  the  limitations  of  the  Redoutensaal,  not  of  its  idea. 
The  permanent  setting  and  its  enclosing  hall  can  take  the  shapes 
of  other  periods  and  meet  almost  every  demand  of  the  drama 
except  atmosphere.  Ideally  the  hall  should  have  some  sober 
yet  arresting  architecture  common  to  many  periods.  A  neutral 
order  of  this  sort  might  be  the  blank  Roman  arches  and  plain 

192 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

pilasters  which  are  seen  so  often  in  modern  buildings.  The 
chandeliers  might  take  a  form  less  ornate  and  less  blazing; 
nuances  of  lighting,  if  desirable,  might  then  be  achieved.  More 
important,  however,  would  be  to  have  three  interchangeable 
shells  and  steps.  One  set  of  walls  should  be  classical  and  severe, 
suited  to  Greek  tragedy,  Julius  Ccesar^  and,  with  a  bit  of  bright- 
ening, to  Shaw's  Ccesar  and  Cleopatra,  Another  shell  should 
strike  the  note  of  artificial  distinction  with  which  the  Redou- 
tensaal  now  echoes.  The  third  should  be  of  dark,  paneled 
wood,  to  suit  Shakespearean  tragedy,  the  comedy  of  Goldsmith, 
and  modern  pieces  from  Rosmersholm  to  Getting  Married  and 
from  Alice  Sit-by-the  Fire  to  Magda, 

The  idea  of  a  permanent  room  in  which  to  act  a  related  re- 
pertory is  thoroughly  applicable  even  to  our  peepshow  play- 
houses with  their  prosceniums.  It  would  be  possible  to  install 
a  shell  or  room  on  the  stage  of  any  reasonably  presentable  thea- 
ter, such  as  Henry  Miller's,  the  Little,  the  Booth,  the  Ply- 
mouth, fhe  Selwyn  in  New  York,  the  Kunstler  in  Munich,  the 
Volksbuhne,  the  Kammerspiele  in  Berlin,  the  Comedie  des 
Champs-Elysees  in  Paris,  St.  Martin's  in  London.  The  room 
would  have  to  be  formal,  probably  without  a  ceiling,  and  cer- 
tainly far  more  like  a  wall  than  a  room.  Such  a  compromise 
seems  the  only  chance  America  may  have  of  experimenting 
with  the  idea  of  the  Redoutensaal.  There  is  nowhere  in  this 
country  a  room  so  naturally  fitted  to  the  purpose  by  its  beauty 

193 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

as  was  the  ballroom  of  the  Hapsburgs.  The  building  of  a 
fresh  structure  is  a  little  too  much  to  askj  for  we  have  hardly 
the  directors  or  actors  to  launch  unpractised  upon  such  a  costly 
and  critical  test.  It  might  be  risked  perhaps,  as  Frank  Lloyd 
Wright  proposed  risking  it,  in  a  theater  of  a  purely  artistic 
nature  far  from  Broadway.  Wright  designed  for  Aline  Barns- 
dall  a  playhouse  to  be  erected  in  California,  with  an  adjustable 
proscenium,  a  stage  with  a  dome  that  all  but  continued  over  the 
auditorium,  and,  upon  the  stage,  a  plain  curving  wall  some  ten 
feet  high,  following  the  shape  of  the  dome.  The  nearest  anal- 
ogy to  the  Redoutensaal  that  has  been  actually  attempted  in 
America  is  probably  the  adaptation  which  Director  Sam  Hume 
and  the  artists  Rudolph  Schaeffer  and  Norman  Edwards  made 
of  the  Greek  Theater  in  Berkeley,  California,  for  Romeo  and 
Juliet  and  Twelfth  Night,  There  is  a  certain  significance,  how- 
ever, in  the  pleasure  which  our  scenic  artists  seem  to  get  out  of  a 
play  which  gives  them  only  one  setting  to  design,  but  which  re- 
quires them  to  wring  from  it,  by  means  of  lights,  many  moods 
and  a  variety  of  visual  impressions.  Lee  Simonson's  circus 
greenroom  for  He  Who  Gets  Slapped  and  Norman-Bel  Geddes' 
sitting  room  for  The  Truth  About  Blayds  showed  how  seduc- 
tive to  the  artist  of  the  theater  may  be  the  game  of  playing 
with  lights  in  a  permanent  setting. 

Approached  purely  from  the  point  of  view  of  scenic  art,  or 
the  so-called  new  stagecraft,  the  Redoutensaal  presents  excel- 

194 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

lent  reasons  for  its  existence.  Historically  it  could  be  defended 
by  a  study  of  the  theater  from  the  Greeks,  with  their  day-lit, 
architectural  background,  to  Georgian  times  when  the  stage 
and  the  house  were  both  lighted  by  the  same  chandeliers,  and 
the  wide  apron,  the  boxes,  and  the  proscenium  made  a  sort  of 
permanent  setting  which  was  varied  by  the  shifting  backcloths. 
But  if  we  go  no  further  back  than  the  days  when  Craig  and 
Appia  were  beginning  to  write,  and  before  their  voices  and 
their  pencils  had  won  an  audience  among  theater  directors,  we 
shall  find  the  start  of  an  evolutionary  development  for  which 
the  idea  of  the  Redoutensaal  provides  a  plausible  climax.  In 
the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century,  the  "flat'^  was  flat  in- 
deed, and  the  painted  wing  and  backdrop  ruled.  If  there  was 
any  depth,  it  was  the  space  between  wing  and  wing,  or  the  false 
space  of  painted  perspective.  Then  the  ideas  of  Craig  and 
Appia,  making  a  curious  alliance  with  Realism,  forced  the  plas- 
tic upon  the  stage.  The  solid,  three-dimensional  setting 
dominated.  When  directors  and  artists  began  to  discover  the 
physical  and  spiritual  limitations  of  "real"  settings  which  could 
present  nothing  bigger  than  the  actual  stage  space,  many  went 
back  to  the  painted  flat.  It  was  a  different  flat,  however,  one 
painted  with  dynamic  and  expressive  design.  The  third 
method  is  seldom  quite  satisfactory.  The  living  actor,  with 
his  three-dimensional  being,  clashes  with  the  two-dimensional 
painting.    The  result  is  bad  from  a  realistic  or  illusionistic 

195 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

point  of  viewj  and,  as  soon  as  we  think  of  the  stage  in  terms  of 
a  frank  convention,  we  find  that  we  want  the  emphasis  thrown 
upon  the  actor  as  the  more  interesting  and  the  more  difficult 
element.  We  want  a  defined  and  permanent  artificiality  that 
shall  give  the  actor  scope,  serve  as  a  ped-a-terre^  not  join  in  a 
fantastic  competition.  We  can  escape  plastic  and  limited  reality 
in  the  Redoutensaal,  while  we  supply  the  actor  with  a  back- 
ground that  harmonizes  with  the  living  character  of  his  body. 
At  the  same  time  we  can  secure  the  vivid  indication  of  mood  or 
time  or  place  which  we  seek,  and  achieve  it  more  vividly  be- 
cause of  the  permanence  of  the  main  fabric  of  the  stage,  and  its 
contrast  with  the  merely  indicated  setting. 

German  scene  designers  and  directors  move  in  theory  steadily 
towards  what  they  call  the  podium,  the  platform  pure  and 
simple,  from  which  the  player  addresses  the  audience  openly 
as  a  player.  In  practice  they  tend  steadily  to  try  to  approach 
this  by  driving  out  as  much  of  changing  scenic  background  as 
possible.  They  place  something  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  a 
table,  a  flight  of  steps,  a  pillar,  a  bed,  and  they  try  to  eliminate 
the  rest  of  the  stage.  Jessner  does  this  in  Berlin  by  using  his 
cyclorama  as  a  neutral  boundary  without  character  in  itself. 
Fehling,  the  director  of  Masse-Mensch^  uses  black  curtains, 
and  the  artist  Krehan  by  the  same  means  tries  to  center  our  at- 
tention on  small  set  pieces  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  stage  and 
designed  to  represent  corners  of  rooms  or  a  sofa  by  a  window. 

196 


THE  REDOUTENSAAL 

Black  curtains  appear  everywhere  in  Germany — perhaps  as  an 
expression  of  the  mood  of  the  beaten  nation,  but  also  unques- 
tionably from  a  desire  to  drive  out  both  Realism  and  pretense 
and  to  leave  as  little  as  possible  upon  the  stage  except  the  actor 
and  the  barest  and  most  essential  indication  of  setting.  The 
German  uses  black  curtains  to  achieve  nothingness.  Instead 
he  gets  desolation,  spiritual  negation.  In  the  Redoutensaal, 
the  actor  is  backed  up  by  space.  It  is  a  positive  presence  instead 
of  a  negative  background.  Yet  it  does  not  obtrude,  this  splen- 
did room,  w^ith  its  gold  and  gray,  its  mirrors  and  its  tapestries. 
These  things  float  in  the  back  of  consciousness,  filling  what 
might  be  a  disquieting  void  or  a  depressing  darkness.  Always 
the  cream  walls  dominate  the  gray,  and  always  the  living  actor, 
driving  his  message  directly  at  the  spectator,  dominates  them 
all. 


197 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

PERHAPS  the  gladiators  gave  it  a  bad  name.  At  any 
rate  for  twenty  centuries  men  have  hesitated  to  put  any- 
thing more  serious  than  a  clown  or  an  athlete  in  the 
middle  of  an  audience.  The  Romans  could  hardly  be  called  a 
timorous,  a  sensitive  or  a  conventional  people,  yet  even  they 
never  thought  of  presenting  a  play  in  an  amphitheater.  C. 
Curio,  rich  and  reckless,  celebrated  the  death  of  his  father  by 
building  two  great  wooden  theaters  back  to  back,  giving  per- 
formances in  both  at  the  same  time,  then  whirling  the  spectators 
about  on  turn  tables,  until  they  faced  each  other,  and  the 
two  semicircles  of  seats  joined  and  made  one  huge  arena.  But, 
though  Curio  was  reckless  of  money  and  of  the  lives  of  his 
guests,  he  was  careful  of  the  esthetic  proprieties.  The  actors 
performed  in  the  theaters,  and  the  animals  in  the  arena. 

So  far  as  the  feelings  of  the  Drama  can  be  learned,  she  did 
not  approve  of  the  way  the  Romans  shoved  her  actors  out 
of  the  old  Greek  orchestra,  and  crammed  them  into  a  shallow 
little  box,  which  they  called  a  stage.  The  first  chance  that  the 
Drama  had,  she  climbed  down  close  to  the  people  again,  and 

198 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

played  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  medieval  churches.  Even 
Shakespeare  did  not  have  the  temerity  to  try  to  put  her  back  in 
a  box.  It  is  said  that  there  wqtc  rare  times,  as  in  some  of  the 
outdoor  mysteries  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  while  the  pageant 
wagons  carried  the  actors  and  their  scenes  into  the  squares  of 
the  English  towns,  when  you  might  have  found  the  Drama  en- 
tirely surrounded  by  the  hosts  of  her  admirers.  But  some  curi- 
ous and  perverse  power  seems  to  have  schemed  through  the  cen- 
turies to  seize  a  decadent  time  like  the  Roman  days  or  the  last 
fifty  years  in  modern  Europe,  and  clap  the  Drama  in  a  box. 
And  to-day,  when  the  Drama  is  bravely  insisting  on  a  little  air 
and  light,  the  power  is  still  strong  enough  to  keep  the  Drama's 
liberators  from  placing  her  naked  and  unashamed  in  the  center 
of  her  fellows.  She  is  no  longer  a  peepshow  lure,  but  we  still 
hesitate  to  treat  her  as  a  goddess. 

Occasionally  a  theorist,  who  is  as  sick  as  the  rest  of  us  of  the 
fourth  wall  convention,  comes  forward  with  some  extraordinary 
proposal  to  put  the  audience  in  the  middle  of  the  drama.  Furt- 
tenbach  in  the  seventeenth  century  laid  out  a  square  theater 
with  a  stage  in  each  corner.  Oskar  Strnad  of  Vienna  wants  to 
place  a  doughnut  stage  two  thirds  round  the  audience;  and  some 
Frenchman  has  advocated  whirling  the  doughnut.  Anything 
to  distract  the  spectator  from  the  drama  j  nothing  to  concentrate 
him  upon  it. 

In  the  "Theater  of  the  Five  Thousand'^  devised  by  Max 

199 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

Reinhardt  in  Berlin,  and  in  the  imitation  which  Firmin  Gemier 
launched  at  the  Cirque  d'Hiver  in  Paris,  the  audience  and  the 
drama  at  last  met  in  the  circus.  But  for  some  curious  reason — 
at  which  I  have  only  guessed  in  a  more  or  less  absurd  fashion — 
neither  Reinhardt  nor  Gemier  was  courageous  or  far-seeing 
enough  to  use  the  circus  as  a  circus.  Neither  dared  put  the 
players  in  the  center,  and  forget  the  old  stage.  At  one  side 
there  always  lingered  a  palace  or  a  proscenium. 

Reinhardt  might  make  the  excuse  that  for  such  a  scheme  he 
needed  a  round  circus,  and  that  a  round  circus  would  be  far  too 
big  for  the  drama.  (He  would  not  be  absurd  enough  to  say 
that  Moissi  or  Pallenberg  could  not  act  unless  all  the  audience 
saw  all  his  face  all  the  time).  There  are  round  circuses  in 
Europe,  however,  and  small,  round  circuses,  and  if  Reinhardt 
could  not  find  one  in  Berlin,  he  could  have  built  one  for  half  the 
money  he  put  into  reconstructing  the  Circus  Schumann  into  the 
Grosses  Schauspielhaus. 

Up  on  Montmartre,  just  under  the  last  heights  on  which 
perches  Sacre  Coeur,  there  is  such  a  circus.  An  intimate  circus, 
a  little  circus,  just  the  place  to  begin  the  last  experiment  with 
the  theater.  Copeau  could  go  straight  there  from  the  Vieux- 
Colombier,  and  throw  his  Scapin  into  the  ring  without  a  sec- 
ond's hesitation.  It  would  bowl  over  Paris  and  half  the  thea- 
trical world. 

Copeau  could  go  straight  there,  but  I  think  the  audience 

200 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

should  be  required,  for  a  time,  to  make  a  detour  via  the  top  of 
Montmartre.  Certainly  that  is  the  only  way  to  approach  the 
Cirque  Medrano  to-day.  A  fiacre  to  the  funicular.  The 
funicular  to  the  base  of  the  cathedral.  A  stroll  all  round  that 
boarded-up  curiosity.  A  look-off  at  Paris  swimming  in  the 
ebb-tide  of  the  summer  sun.  Then  supper  in  the  Place  du 
Tertre.  Not  for  the  food,  which  is  as  good  as  any  cuisine 
bourgeoise;  nor  for  the  trees  and  window-groups  out  of  Manet  j 
nor  for  the  tubby  widow  of  forty-five  who  sings: 

Je  le  proclame, 
Les  mains  de  femme 
Sont  les  bijoux 
Dont  je  suis  fou.  .  .  . 

or  the  ancient  with  the  two  brass  buttons  in  the  back  of  his  sur- 
tout  and  the  patience  of  an  English  politician,  who  recites  in- 
audible and  probably  unintelligible  poetry  before  passing  the 
hat.  Supper  in  the  Place  du  Tertre  is  an  appropriate  prelude 
to  the  Cirque  Medrano  because  of  the  dog  that  watches  all  even- 
ing from  the  tin  roof  of  an  impossibly  ruined  house,  and  the 
women  straight  out  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  days  of  '48 
and  the  Commune,  who  stand  about  with  their  great  naked 
arms  akimbo,  and  their  strong  sharp  chins,  high  cheek  bones, 
and  eagle  eyes  waiting  for  the  liberty  cap  to  crown  them.  The 
dog  and  the  women,  they  are  the  audience  and  the  show.  They 
are  the  Cirque  Medrano. 

201 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

This  circus  is  a  golden  bowl.  At  the  bottonij  no  sawdust  but  a 
carpet  of  hemp,  a  great  "welcome"  doormat  without  the  letter- 
ings we  take  the  deed  for  the  word.  Outside  the  ring  is  a 
parapet  nicely  carpeted  in  yellowy  one  of  the  clowns  finds  it 
amusing  to  roll  round  this  track  on  his  shoulders.  Above  the 
parapet  rise  steep  rows  of  seats,  half  of  them  in  bright  orange 
for  the  spectators  with  fifty  or  sixty  cents  to  spend.  Higher  up 
the  thin  and  graceful  pillars  which  support  the  roof  cut  across 
the  vision  a  little )  here  there  are  only  benches  and  the  devotes. 
At  opposite  sides  of  the  ring,  walled  passages  lead  out  to  the 
greenroom  and  public  entrances  which  circle  underneath  the 
seats.  Exits  for  the  audience  pierce  the  rows  at  the  four  quar- 
ters. From  the  disk  of  the  dome  above,  sixteen  great  lamps 
blaze  down  on  the  ring,  and  sometimes  a  spotlight  or  two 
punctuate  the  darkness. 

If  you  like  to  take  your  pleasure  sentimentally,  a  perform- 
ance at  the  Cirque  Medrano  is  like  opening  old  letters — 
with  a  comic  valentine  now  and  then  for  tonic.  Huck  Finn 
saw  a  one-ring  circus  3  but  Gentry's  Dog  and  Pony  Show  is  the 
farthest  that  the  present  generation  ever  get  from  the  three- 
ring-and-two-stage  monstrosity  which  deafens  our  ears  and 
dulls  our  eyes. 

The  Cirque  Medrano  is  the  proper  place  for  artists  and  con- 
noisseurs. The  fifteen  hundred  people  that  it  holds  can  study 
— and  do  study- — with  the  minute  intensity  of  an  anatomical 

202 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

clinic,  M.  Grossi  and  Coquette,  as  the  horseman,  quite  as  proud 
as  his  mare,  puts  her  through  five  minutes  of  marching  to  music. 
They  turn  their  eyes  with  just  as  much  appreciation  to  watch 
the  aerialists,  plunging  into  their  dangerous  pastimes  under  the 
lights.  Here  M.  Lionel,  Roi  du  Vertige^  gets  the  sort  of  atten- 
tion he  could  never  win  on  the  vaudeville  stage  j  it  must  seem  to 
him  sometimes,  as  he  manoeuvers  gingerly  on  a  chair  balanced 
by  its  right  hind  leg  in  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  is  perched  in 
turn  on  a  ten  foot  pole,  that  the  towering  rows  of  seats  are  about 
to  topple  over  on  the  strange  career  which  he  has  made  of  him- 
self. 

There  is  no  question,  then,  about  the  sight-lines  of  the  thea- 
ter which  Copeau  should  make  out  of  the  Cirque  Medrano, 
There  never  was  such  an  auditorium  for  sheer  visibility.  The 
last  rows  are  better  than  the  first ;  they  take  in  the  whole  audi- 
ence as  well  as  the  show,  while  all  you  can  say  for  the  front 
seats  is  that  they  would  show  you  half  of  the  laughing  or 
crying  crowd  of  men  and  women,  hanging  over  the  actors  in 
far  from  mute  adoration.  The  slant  of  these  seats  is  greater 
than  the  slant  in  Max  Littmann's  theaters  in  Munich,  but,  be- 
cause the  rows  swing  all  round,  you  never  get  that  feeling  of 
awful  vacancy  and  gap  which  comes  to  spectators  in  the  upper 
rows  of  the  Prinzregenten  and  the  Kunstler  Theaters  in 
Munich.  And  there  is  no  proscenium  arch  to  press  down  upon 
the  poor  midgets  at  the  bottom  of  the  playhouse. 

203 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

"But  their  backs?     How  about  the  actors'  backs?" 

That  is  a  foolish  question  from  any  one  who  has  ever  seen 
Copeau's  players,  who  has  watched  Jouvet's  back  play  the 
coarse,  immense  Karamazov,  or  seen  his  legs  and  buttocks 
send  Aguecheek  shuffling  across  the  stage,  or  caught  the  whole 
quick  poise  of  Suzanne  Bing's  Viola  in  her  shoulders  and 
hips. 

It  is  nothing  short  of  the  ravings  of  a  mad  man  if  the  ques- 
tioner has  been  to  the  Cirque  Medrano,  and  looked  upon  the 
clowns.  People  have  wondered  how  the  actors  of  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus  could  play  to  three  audiences  at  once,  the  one 
in  front,  the  one  at  the  right,  and  the  one  at  the  left;  here  are 
the  clowns  playing  to  four.  It  is  not  all  slapstick  either. 
There  is  almost  no  whacking  in  the  clowns'  own  turns.  In 
these  scenes  they  work  out  broad  little  comedy  skits  such  as 
Ray  and  Johnny  Dooley,  Leon  Errol  and  Walter  Catlett,  Eddie 
Cantor  and  George  Le  Maire,  Willie  and  Eugene  Howard,  or 
Weber  &  Fields  might  offer  in  our  revues.  The  difference  ^t 
the  Medrano  is  that  the  actors  seem  to  have  consciously  de- 
veloped their  gestures  and  their  poses  as  supplementary  expres- 
sion to  their  faces.  Also  they  warily  work  round  during  their 
scenes,  and  give  each  part  of  the  audience  the  benefit  of  both 
back  and  face.  The  comedy  of  the  Medrano  is  far  funnier 
than  the  comedy  of  The  Follies  or  the  comedy  of  the  Redou- 
tensaal  in  Vienna;  and  not  because  the  turns  are  broader.    It  is 

204 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

funnier  because  it  is  so  intimately  alive,  because  it  is  made  with 
all  the  actor's  body,  and  because  it  is  always  directed  at  an  audi- 
ence. Four  audiences  at  once!  It  is  a  priceless  advantage. 
The  actor  has  always  some  one  to  press  his  art  upon.  In  our 
theater  half  an  actor's  body  is  dead,  or  else  vainly  talking  to  the 
scenery.  That  is  an  understatement,  if  anything.  The  only 
way  the  actor  can  get  directly  at  our  audience,  register  upon  it 
the  impact  of  his  art,  his  personality,  his  emotion,  is  to  turn 
away  from  the  scene  and  make  his  speech  into  a  monologue. 
That  is  the  chief  difficulty  which  stands  in  way  of  the  sort  of 
acting  which  deals  directly  and  frankly  with  the  audience, 
which  admits  that  it  is  art  and  not  reality,  which  says  that  the 
actor  is  an  actor  and  the  audience  is  an  actor,  too  3  the  kind  of 
acting,  in  short,  which  is  called  presentational  in  contrast  to  the 
realistic  method  of  representation  which  rules  our  theater. 
On  any  stage  that  is  surrounded  by  its  audience,  the  player  can 
speak  to  his  fellow-actor  and  to  his  audience  at  the  same  time. 
In  the  Medrano  it  is  no  question  of  backs  or  faces.  The  whole 
man  plays,  and  every  inch  of  him  has  an  audience. 

There  remains,  however,  the  question  of  setting.  Clowns 
need  no  atmosphere,  but  Hamlet  must  speak  to  a  ghost.  An 
acrobat  is  his  own  scenery,  but  Juliet  needs  a  balcony.  Can  the 
Medrano  manage  such  things?  Can  this  open  ring  do  what 
the  stage  of  the  Redoutensaal  balks  at? 

The  Medrano  can  do  almost  anything  that  our  theater  can  do 

205 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

— and  a  great  many  things  more — because  it  can  use  the  three 
essentials  of  setting  and  atmosphere:  light,  human  bodies,  and 
indications  of  place. 

Light.  ...  It  is  the  fifth  turn  in  the  Cirque  Medrano. 
Lydia  et  Henry,  "Babies  Dancers,"  two  pitiable  little  children, 
who  have  been  taught  to  do  very  bad  imitations  of  their  elders 
in  the  banal  dances  of  the  revues.  After  they  have  hopped  and 
shaken  their  way  uncertainly  through  two  or  three  fox  trots 
and  shimmies,  the  great  lights  in  the  roof  go  out.  Blackness, 
then  a  stain  of  amber  in  the  center  of  the  ring.  The  light 
brightens  and  the  stain  lengthens.  It  might  fall  upon  the  stone 
of  an  old  cistern,  if  some  one  had  thought  to  put  it  there. 
Then,  when  the  figure  of  Salome  crawls  out  along  the  stain, 
it  would  be  many  moments  before  we  could  see  that  it  was  the 
body  of  a  four-year-old,  whom  some  one  had  togged  out  with 
breast-plates.  Or  again  darkness,  and  slowly  a  blue-green 
light  from  on  high,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  an  Apache  and  a  girl. 
It  needs  no  curb,  no  lamp-post,  no  brick  corner,  to  make  the  ring 
a  moonlit  street. 

After  light,  there  comes  the  human  body.  The  Medrano 
as  a  circus  does  nothing  to  show  how  the  actors  themselves  can 
make  a  setting.  Why  should  it?  But  I  remember  the  project 
of  an  American  artist,  in  1 9 14,  to  put  The  Cenci  upon  the  stage 
of  a  prize  ring,  and  I  remember  how  the  sketches  showed  a 
chorus  of  human  figures  in  costumes  and  with  staves,  circling 

206 


An  impression  of  the  Cirque  Medrano  in  Paris. 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

about  the  people  of  Shelley's  play  and  forming  a  dozen  frames 
to  the  drama  within. 

After  light  and  a  setting  of  bodies  comes  just  as  much  of 
the  ordinary  plastic  scenery  of  the  stage  as  you  need,  and  just 
as  little  as  you  can  get  along  with.  If  you  care  to  dig  a  bit 
under  the  ring,  and  install  machinery  that  will  lower  the  floor 
in  sections,  pile  up  hills  in  concentric  circles  or  even  lift  a  throne 
or  a  well  or  an  altar  into  the  middle  of  the  circus  while  the 
lights  are  out — ^well,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  you.  Juliet's 
balcony  may  hang  above  one  of  the  entrances  j  or  in  the  center 
of  the  stage  throughout  the  whole  action  of  Les  Fourberies  de 
Scapin  may  stand  the  treteau  or  block,  which  Copeau  makes 
the  center  of  the  action  at  the  Vieux-Colombier.  Scenically 
the  problem  of  the  Medrano  is  the  most  fascinating  problem  of 
the  stage  artist,  the  creation  of  a  single  permanent  structure, 
large  or  small,  which  can  stand  throughout  a  play  and  give 
significant  aid  to  the  various  scenes. 

It  is  no  such  difficult  task  to  imagine  productions  in  the 
Medrano  as  it  is  to  find  plays  for  the  Redoutensaal.  The  ac- 
companying sketch  shows  an  arrangement  for  The  Merchant 
of  Venice,  Glowing  Venetian  lanterns  are  hung  in  the  spaces 
between  the  arches  at  the  top  of  the  theater.  The  four  en- 
trances for  the  public  are  made  entrances  for  the  players  as 
well.  Below  each  gate  is  a  double  stair,  railed  at  the  top  with 
Venetian  iron.    Between  the  stairs  are  benches,  again  in  the 

207 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

shape  of  the  period.  The  railings  become  the  copings  of  the 
Rialto.  The  casket  scenes  are  played  in  the  center  of  the  arena, 
while  Portia  and  Nerissa  watch  the  proceedings  from  a  bench  at 
one  side;  another  bench  seats  the  judges  in  the  courtroom. 
Jessica  leans  out  from  an  entrance  to  flirt  with  her  lover,  and 
the  carnival  mob  chases  old  Shylock  up  and  down  the  little 
stairsj  over  the  benches,  round  about  and  out  one  of  the  two 
lower  gates  to  the  ring. 

The  ghost  scene  in  Hamlet?  Imagine  the  sentinel's  com- 
panions moonlit  in  the  center.  Imagine  a  gallery  behind  the 
arches  lighted  with  a  dim  and  ghostly  radiance.  And  imagine 
Marcellus  suddenly  and  fearfully  pointing  to  the  figure  of  the 
dead  man  where  it  moves  above  the  last  row  of  spectators.  No 
mixing  of  actors  and  audience,  but  what  a  thrill  to  see  the  ghost 
across  a  gulf  of  turned  and  straining  faces,  what  a  horror  to  see 
him  over  your  own  shoulder!  Later  Hamlet  climbs  stone  by 
stone  to  meet  and  speak  with  the  ghost  from  a  platform  above 
one  of  the  great  entrances. 

The  Jest — its  prison  scene?  A  block  in  the  middle  of  the 
ring,  a  single  glaring  light  from  straight  above,  and  the  figure 
of  Neri  chained  to  the  block. 

Masse-Mensch?  But  a  mob-play  is  too  easy.  The  scene 
of  the  defeat,  for  instance  3  light  upon  the  steps  in  the  middle  of 
the  ring,  workers  piled  up  on  it,  messengers  and  refugees  run- 
ning in  from  gate  after  gate,  from  all  four  entrances,  flinging 

208 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  as  it  might  be  given 
the  Cirque  Medrano. 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

themselves  back  on  the  crowd  in  the  center  as  the  news  of  fresh 
disaster  comes.  The  rattle  of  firearms  5  lights  against  the  back 
of  the  high  gallery,  and  the  silhouettes  of  a  score  of  machine 
guns  trained  on  the  actors  and  the  audience. 

It  would  be  foolish  to  deny  that  the  Medrano  is  not  a  theater 
for  every  play.  It  could  not  hold  some  that  the  artificiality  of 
the  Redoutensaal  would  make  welcome — Oscar  Wilde's,  for 
instance — along  with  most  of  the  conversational  Realism  of  the 
past  thirty  years.  But  it  could  house  all  that  the  Grosses 
Schauspielhaus  is  fitted  for — Greek  tragedy  and  comedy, 
Shakespeare's  greatest  plays,  dramas  like  Florian  Geyer^  The 
Weavers^  and  Danton,  Some  of  the  scenes  of  such  pieces,  the 
intimate  episodes  which  Reinhardt's  circus  balks  at,  could  be 
done  excellently  in  the  Medrano.  It  has  all  the  intimacy  of 
Copeau's  theater,  and  it  could  bring  into  its  ring  many  dramas 
of  to-day, — The  Emperor  J  ones  y  Strife  ^ — which  are  impossible 
in  the  Vieux-Colombier.  The  Medrano  has  its  limitations,  of 
course,  but  they  are  not  the  limitations  of  size,  emotion,  or 
period.  The  plays  that  it  could  not  do  would  be  the  plays  least 
worth  doing,  at  their  best  the  plays  which  give  to  a  reader 
almost  all  that  they  have  to  give. 

If  you  should  try  to  make  a  comparison  of  method,  rather 
than  of  limitations,  between  the  three  active  presentational  the- 
aters of  Europe,  and  the  fourth  that  might  be,  it  would  run,  I 
think  something  like  this:  The  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  tries  to 

209 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

deceive  you  in  curious  ways, — with  dome  and  scenery  and  cloud 
machine.  The  Vieux-Colombier  carefully  explains  to  you  that 
this  is  a  theater,  and  that  this  is  also  life.  The  Redoutensaal 
asks  you  to  dress  up  and  see  something  artistic.  The  Medrano 
unites  you  and  overwhelms  you. 

The  thing  that  impresses  any  one  who  studies  the  Medrano 
from  the  point  of  view  of  play  production — it  may  even  impress 
the  reader  who  tries  to  understand  and  sympathize  with  these 
attempts  to  suggest  how  plays  might  be  produced  there — is  the 
great  variety  which  such  a  theater  offers  and  always  the  sense  of 
unity  which  it  creates.  From  every  angle  relationships  center 
upon  the  actor,  or  cut  across  one  another  as  he  moves  about, 
makes  entrances  or  exits,  or  appears  in  the  back  of  the  audience. 
All  these  relationships  work  to  a  fine,  natural  unity.  There  is 
the  actor  in  the  center  with  the  audience  about  him  j  there  is  the 
actor  on  the  rim  drawing  the  audience  out  and  across  to  him. 
There  are  three  circles  of  action  within  one  another  in  a  single 
unity.  And  there  is  the  sense  of  all  this  which  the  audience 
has  as  it  looks  down,  Olympian,  from  its  banks  of  seats. 

Something  of  the  vision  of  the  aeroplane  invades  the  Me- 
drano. We  see  life  anew.  We  see  it  cut  across  on  a  fresh 
plane.  Patterns  appear  of  which  we  had  no  knowledge.  Re- 
lationships become  clear  that  were  once  confusion.  We  catch 
a  sense  of  the  roundness  and  rightness  of  life.  And  in  the 
Medrano,  while  we  win  this  vision  in  a  new  dimension,  we  do 

210 


THE  CIRQUE  MEDRANO 

not  lose  the  feel  of  the  old.  Such  a  theater  establishes  both  for 
us.  It  gives  us  the  three  unities  of  space  in  all  their  fulness. 
They  cut  across  one  another  like  the  planes  of  a  hypercube. 
And  the  deeper  they  cut,  the  deeper  grows  the  unity. 

The  Medrano  seems  to  solve  two  problems  of  the  modern 
theater.  These  arise  from  two  desires  in  the  leading  direc- 
tors and  artists.  One  is  to  throw  out  the  actor  into  sharp  relief, 
stripped  of  everything  but  the  essential  in  setting.  This  moti- 
vates a  production  like  Masse-Menschy  with  black  curtains  blot- 
ting out  all  but  the  center  of  the  stage,  and  a  theater  like  the 
Redoutensaal,  with  the  actor  placed  amidst  a  background  of 
formal  and  permanent  beauty.  The  Medrano  supplies  a  living 
background,  the  background  of  the  audience  itself.  It  is  the 
background  of  life  instead  of  death,  a  fulness  of  living  things 
instead  of  the  morbid  emptiness  of  black  curtains.  It  is  a 
background  more  enveloping  and  animating  than  the  ballroom 
of  Maria  Theresa.  It  is  a  background  that  accords  with  every 
mood,  and  is  itself  a  unity. 

The  other  problem  is  a  psychological  and  a  physical  problem, 
the  problem  of  life-principles  in  art.  In  the  beginning  the 
theater  was  masculine.  Its  essence  was  a  thrust.  The  phallus 
was  borne  in  the  processional  ritual  at  the  opening  of  the 
Theater  of  Dionysus  each  spring;  and  its  presence  was  signifi- 
cant. The  greatest  and  the  healthiest  of  the  theaters  have  al- 
ways plunged  their  actors  into  the  midst  of  the  audience.   It  is 

211 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

only  decadence^  whether  Roman  or  Victorian,  that  has  with- 
drawn the  actor  into  a  sheath,  a  cave,  a  mouth,  and  has  tried  to 
drag  the  spirit  of  the  spectator  in  with  him.  The  peep  show  is 
essentially  evil.  I  will  not  say  it  is  feminine,  but  I  will  say  that 
the  art  of  the  theater  is  a  masculine  art,  that  it  is  assertive  and 
not  receptive.  Its  business  is  to  imbue  the  audience.  It  is  not 
too  difficult  to  see  in  the  proscenium  arch  the  reason  for  the 
barrenness  of  the  realistic  theater.  Directors  and  artists  who 
have  felt  this  have  tried  to  find  a  playhouse  that  lies  nearer  to 
the  masculine  vigor  of  ^schylus  and  Shakespeare.  I  think 
they  can  find  it  in  the  Cirque  Medrano. 


212 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  OLD  SPIRIT— THE  NEW  THEATER 

IT  is  hard  to  escape  the  belief  that  this  ferment  in  the  thea- 
ter means  something.  Something  for  life  and  from  lifej 
something  for  art  and  from  art.  Something  immensely 
important  to  the  sense  of  godhead  in  man  which  is  life  and  art 
together,  life  and  art  fecundating  one  another. 

It  seems  peculiarly  clear  that  the  new  forces  in  the  theater 
have  been  working  towards  a  spiritual  change  far  more  novel, 
far  more  interesting,  and  naturally  far  more  important  than 
any  of  the  technical  changes  which  they  have  brought  about. 

The  technical  changes  have  been  confusing.  First  this  busi- 
ness of  scenic  designers  and  revolving  stages  and  all  manner 
of  show  and  mechanism;  and  now  the  "naked  stage,"  abdi- 
cation of  the  artist,  scrapping  of  the  machines,  the  actor  alone, 
on  a  podium  or  in  a  circus  ring.    All  in  the  name  of  drama. 

There  is  only  one  explanation.  These  changes  have  come 
as  part  of  an  attempt  to  restore  the  theater  to  its  old  functions. 
They  are  two  very  extraordinary  functions.  One  may  be  de- 
bauched into  titillation,  or  may  rise  to  that  fulness  of  vitality, 

213 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

that  excitation,  upon  which  the  second  function  of  the  theater 
is  based,  the  function  of  exaltation. 

Between  the  older  theater,  in  which  these  functions  worked 
as  potently  as  they  worked  seldom,  and  the  theater  in  which 
they  may  work  again,  lay  the  theater  of  Realism.  It  was  a 
product  of  a  tremendous  force,  a  force  for  evil  as  well  as  good 
— the  force  of  nineteenth  century  science.  Science  made  the 
theater  realistic  and  Realism  made  the  drama  scientific.  It 
ceased  to  be  a  show.  It  became  a  photograph.  The  drama 
was  made  "truer,"  but  only  in  the  sense  that  a  photograph  may 
be  truer  to  fact  than  a  drawing  by  Picasso.  It  achieved  resem- 
blance to  life.  And  then  it  ceased  to  have  excitement  or  exalt- 
ation, because  excitement,  in  the  vivid  sense  in  which  I  use  it 
here,  is  most  uncommon  in  modern  life,  and  because  exaltation 
is  a  rare  and  hidden  thing  showing  seldom  in  outward  relations. 
Both  are  too  exceptional  for  Realism. 

The  restoration  of  excitement  to  the  theater  may  appear  to 
degrade  it  from  the  exact  and  austere  report  of  life  which  Real- 
ism demands.  But  the  thrill  of  movement  and  event  is  the 
element  in  the  theater  which  lifts  our  spirits  to  the  point  where 
exaltation  is  possible.  The  power  of  the  theater  lies  in  just 
this  ability  to  raise  us  to  ecstasy  through  the  love  of  vitality 
which  is  the  commonest  sign  of  divinity  in  life.  And  when 
the  theater  gives  us  ecstasy,  what  becomes  of  science?  And 
who  cares? 

214 


THE  OLD  SPIRIT  — THE  NEW  THEATER 

The  new  forces  in  the  theater  have  struggled  more  or  less 
blindly  toward  this  end.  They  have  tried  beauty,  richness, 
novelty,  to  win  back  excitement.  They  have  only  just  begun 
to  see  that  the  liveliest  excitation  in  the  playhouse  may  come 
from  the  art  of  the  actor  and  the  art  of  the  regisseur  when  they 
are  stripped  to  the  task  of  providing  exaltation.  Present  the 
actor  as  an  actor,  and  the  background  as  an  honest,  material 
background,  and  you  are  ready  for  what  glories  the  playwright 
and  the  peculiar  genius  of  the  theater  can  provide.  The  drama 
is  free  again  for  its  eternal  task — the  showing  of  the  soul  of  life. 

Just  how  much  this  may  mean  is  perhaps  the  test  of  your 
belief  in  the  theater.  It  is  the  conviction  of  some  of  us  that 
there  has  resided  in  the  theater — and  our  hope  that  there  may 
reside  once  more — something  akin  to  the  religious  spirit.  A 
definition  of  this  spirit  is  difficult.  It  is  certainly  not  religion. 
It  goes  behind  religion.  It  is  the  exaltation  of  which  formal 
creeds  are  a  product.  It  is  the  vitality  which  informs  life,  and 
begets  art.  Out  of  the  intensity  of  spiritual  feeling  which 
rises  from  the  eternal  processes  of  the  universe  and  in  turn  be- 
comes conscious  of  them,  the  thing  is  born  which  made  Greek 
tragedy  noble  and  which  called  drama  back  to  life  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  Then  it  was  the  spirit  of  religion.  To-day  we 
might  call  it  the  spirit  of  life. 

Both  consciously  and  unconsciously  men  of  the  theater  have 
sought  to  win  back  this  exaltation.    The  latest  attempt  is  in 

215 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

some  ways  the  most  daring  and  the  most  interesting.  Max 
Reinhardt,  leaving  the  playhouse,  has  tried  to  find  it  in  a  wed- 
ding of  the  drama  and  the  church.  Before  this  book  is  pub- 
lished, Reinhardt  will  have  produced  Calderon's  mystic  drama. 
The  Theater  of  the  Worldy  under  the  high  altar  of  the  Col- 
legienkirche  in  Salzburg.  It  is  impossible  now  to  speak  of 
how  far  he  has  been  able  to  effect  an  esthetic  union  between  the 
handsome  rococo  edifice  and  the  platform  for  his  players  5  it  is 
only  possible  to  speculate  on  the  spiritual  feeling  which  spec- 
tators may  gain  through  looking  up  at  the  actors  from  a  flat 
floor,  instead  of  looking  down  upon  them.  I  cannot  speak  of 
the  actual  presence  of  exaltation  in  the  audience,  but  we  can 
speculate  together  on  the  possibilities  of  winning  back  spiritual 
vitality  for  the  drama  by  union  with  the  church. 

First  of  all,  there  comes  the  disquieting  thought  that  the 
theater  presents  the  spectacle  these  days  of  a  bird  that  lays  eggs 
in  another  bird's  nest.  It  isn't  content  with  the  one  it  has  used 
for  some  centuries.  It  must  go  snooping  about  looking  for  a 
new  haven  for  the  drama.  It  tries  the  circus.  It  tries  the 
ballroom.  It  shows  us  the  Grosses  Schauspielhaus  and  the 
Redoutensaal.  It  even  seems  to  have  got  a  notion  of  laying  its 
eggs  on  the  fourth  wall.  As  this  was  the  only  thing  that  wasn't 
thoroughly  real  in  the  realistic  theater,  the  result — the  motion 
picture — is  a  bit  of  a  scramble.  And  now  the  cuckoo  theater 
has  its  eye  on  the  church. 

216 


THE  OLD  SPIRIT  — THE  NEW  THEATER 

A  truer  charge  might  be  that  the  human  animal  has  a  per- 
verse liking  for  novelty  j  but  even  that  could  be  countered  with 
the  assertion  that  out  of  the  stimulation  of  novelty,  as  out  of 
almost  any  stimulation,  man  can  make  art — if  he  has  it  in  him. 
As  to  that  strange  bird,  the  theater,  it  has  never  had  good  home- 
keeping  habits.  It  laid  its  eggs  on  Greek  altars,  and  in  the 
mangers  of  Christian  chapels.  It  nested  in  the  inn  yard  in 
England,  and  the  tennis  court  in  France.  The  fact  that  the 
theater  has  a  habit  of  roaming  is  worth  about  as  much  in  this 
discussion  of  its  chance  in  the  modern  church  as  the  fact  that  it 
once  found  ecstasy  by  the  Greek  altar  and  produced  little  ap- 
proaching dramatic  literature  while  it  was  in  the  Christian 
church. 

Jacques  Copeau  complains  that  the  drama  has  no  home  to- 
day, and  asserts  that  between  the  only  choices  open  to  it — the 
church  and  the  street — he  much  prefers  the  street.  The 
church  doesn't  want  the  drama;  its  creed  doesn't  want  the 
drama  5  its  spirit  repels  the  drama.  In  this  relation  of  the 
church  and  the  theater  there  seems  to  be  a  problem  for  Europe 
and  a  problem  for  America.  The  possibility  of  the  two  uniting 
appears  much  greater  in  Europe.  Europe — particularly 
central  and  southern  Europe,  where  Catholicism  flourishes — 
holds  far  more  of  genuine  religious  spirit  than  does  America. 
Moreover,  the  church  there  has  the  strength  of  tradition  and  of 
art  behind  it.    The  esthetic-emotional  grip  of  the  churches 

217 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

themselves,  their  architecture,  their  atmosphere,  the  sense  of 
continuity  that  lives  in  them,  holds  men  and  women  v^hose 
minds  have  rejected  or  ignored  the  authority  of  dogma.  Even 
an  American  cut  off  from  the  traditional  side  of  this  life  would 
feel  a  thrill  in  a  drama  in  the  Collegienkirche  in  Salzburg  or 
in  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres  that  no  performance  in  a  theater 
could  give  him.  The  beauty  of  the  ages  would  bless  the  drama 
in  almost  any  European  building  except  a  theater.  But  come 
to  America,  and  try  to  imagine  Everyman  in  Trinity  Church 
at  the  head  of  Wall  street,  or  The  Theater  of  the  World  in  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  John  the  Divine,  not  to  bring  it  down  to  the 
level  of  a  Methodist  meeting  house.  The  theater  can  always 
make  religion  more  dramatic  j  witness  the  experiments  of  the 
Reverend  William  Norman  Guthrie  and  Claude  Bragdon  with 
lighting  and  dance  in  St.  Mark's-in-the-Bouwerie.  But  I  do 
not  think  that  any  American  church  short  of  some  Spanish- 
Indian  mission  in  the  Southwest  can  make  the  drama  more 
religious. 

For  America — and,  I  suspect,  for  Europe,  too — the  problem 
is  to  find  a  way  to  the  religious  spirit  independent  of  the  church. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  producing  plays  in  cathedrals,  but  of 
producing  the  spirit  of  life  in  plays.  It  is  not:  Can  religion 
make  itself  theatrical.^  But:  Can  the  theater  make  itself — in  a 
new  sense — religious? 

If  modern  life,  particularly  the  life  of  America,  were  spirit- 

218 


THE  OLD  SPIRIT  — THE  NEW  THEATER 

ual  in  any  degree,  all  this  would  be  simple.  Church  and  thea- 
ter would  both  minister — as  neither  of  them  does  now — to  the 
life  of  the  spirit.  America  has  no  art  and  no  religion  which 
can  make  drama  religious.  America  does  not  believe,  in  any- 
deep  sense.  Science  has  shattered  dogma,  and  formal  religion 
has  not  been  able  to  absorb  an  artistic  or  a  philosophic  spirit 
great  enough  to  recreate  the  religious  spirit  in  men. 

The  thing  is  still  more  difficult  because  there  is  nowhere  in 
this  country — unless,  again,  it  is  in  the  Southwest — a  sense 
of  the  age-long  processes  of  life,  which  are  part  of  the  soil  and 
which  leave  their  mark  on  men  and  women  through  the  phys- 
ical things  that  have  always  cradled  them.  In  Europe  even  the 
cities  hold  this  ancient  and  natural  aspect  j  they  are  shaped  by 
man  and  time,  even  as  the  fields  and  the  hills  are  shaped  by 
time  and  man.  These  cities  bask,  and  lie  easy.  There  is  a 
sense  of  long,  slow  growth  in  the  very  stones.  In  America,  it 
is  not  only  that  our  cities  are  new  and  brash.  Our  countryside 
is  the  same.  Even  our  farmhouses  stick  out  of  the  land  like 
square  boxes.  As  simple  a  house  in  Europe  has  a  breadth  that 
reconciles  it  with  the  sweep  of  the  fields.  The  American  farm- 
house is  symbol  of  our  separation  from  the  soil.  We  are  out  of 
touch  with  the  earthy  vitality  of  life  which  might  bring  us  at 
least  a  little  sense  of  the  eternal. 

If  the  man  of  the  theater  gives  up  the  American  church  as  a 
path  to  the  spirit  of  life,  and  if  he  finds  no  religion  in  modernity 

219 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

from  which  to  bring  religion  to  the  stage,  what  can  he  do?  Is 
it  possible  that  he  can  create  the  spiritual  in  the  people  by  creat- 
ing it  in  the  theater?  Can  he  see  the  vision  himself  j  and,  if  he 
sees  it  and  embodies  it,  can  it  make  over  the  people? 

Clive  Bell,  writing  in  Art^  has  described  how  such  artists 
as  William  Blake  and  a  very  few  others  have  reached  the  spirit- 
ual reality  of  existence— the  thing  we  should  call  religion — 
directly,  by  pure  intuition :  "Some  artists  seem  to  have  come  at 
it  by  sheer  force  of  imagination,  unaided  by  anything  without 
them  3  they  have  needed  no  material  ladder  to  help  them  out  of 
matter.    They  have  spoken  with  reality  as  mind  to  mind." 

Vision  of  this  sort  is  so  inordinately  rare,  that  it  seems  as 
though  some  other  way  must  be  found  to  open  spiritual  truth 
to  the  artist  of  the  theater.  The  only  other  way  is  through 
the  deepest  understanding  of  life  itself.  What  can  the  artist 
find  in  American  life  to  bring  the  vision?  Nothing,  surely,  on 
the  surface.  Our  architects  have  reached  a  more  noteworthy 
expression  than  perhaps  any  of  our  painters,  because  they  have 
somehow  managed  to  identify  themselves  with  a  spirit  of  affir- 
mation behind  those  industrial  forms  that  our  commercial  im- 
perialism presents  to  view  in  our  men  of  position  like  Morgan 
and  Ford,  our  periodicals  like  The  American  Magazine  and 
The  Saturday  Evening  Post^  our  subways  and  our  cigarette  ads, 
our  patent  medicines  and  our  Kuppenheimer  clothes. 

The  artist  of  the  theater  who  is  to  create  ecstasy  by  finding 

220 


THE  OLD  SPIRIT 


—  THE  NEW  THEATER 


it,  must  see  deeper  than  the  architects  behind  the  shams  of 
American  life.  He  must  grasp  the  Spirit  of  America  in  a  sense 
so  extraordinary  that  the  use  we  ordinarily  make  of  that  phrase 
will  seem  impossibly  and  blasphemously  cheap.  We  have  hints 
of  what  the  artist  must  see  and  understand  in  Sandburg's  sense 
of  Chicago,  in  Vachel  Lindsay's  sense  of  the  Middle  West,  in 
Waldo  Frank's  sense  of  New  Mexico. 

When  theatrical  genius  has  grasped  the  truth  of  America,  it 
must  be  his  business  to  make  of  himself  and  his  theater  a  magni- 
fying glass  for  the  rest  of  his  fellows.  What  he  has  been  able 
to  seize  by  sheer  intuition,  he  must  put  in  such  form  that 
it  can  seize  all  America.  It  is  the  hope  of  the  theater  that  it 
can  make  the  vision  of  one  man  become  the  vision  of  many. 

There  is  no  reason  why  a  man  of  the  theater  should  not  have 
the  vision 5  it  has  come  to  other  artists.  They  have  been  able 
to  transfer  some  share  of  it  to  the  sensitive,  the  developed,  the 
intellectual.  The  artist  of  the  theater  can  perhaps  transfer  it 
to  millions,  to  the  uneducated  and  the  dull,  as  well  as  to  the 
receptive.  In  the  theater  he  has  a  very  extraordinary  instru- 
ment. It  is  the  art  nearest  to  life;  its  material  is  almost  life 
itself.  This  physical  identity  which  it  has  with  our  very  exis- 
tence is  the  thing  that  can  enable  the  artist  to  visualize  with 
amazing  intensity  a  religious  spirit  of  which  he  has  sensed  only 
the  faintest  indications  in  life.  He  can  create  a  world  which 
shines  with  exaltation  and  which  seems — as  it  indeed  is — a 

221 


CONTINENTAL  STAGECRAFT 

world  of  reality.  He  can  give  the  spirit  a  pervading  presence 
in  the  theater  which  it  once  had  in  the  life  of  the  Greeks  and 
of  the  people  of  the  Middle  Ages.  And  when  men  and  women 
see  eternal  spirit  in  such  a  form,  who  can  say  that  they  will  not 
take  it  to  them? 


THE  END 


222 


INDEX 


INDEX 


In  the  case  of  a  number  of  plays  listed  in  this  index,  the  names  of  the  director  and 
the  artist  responsible  for  the  particular  production  in  question  are  coupled  in  a  pa- 
renthesis preceding  the  numbers  of  the  pages  on  which  the  production  is  mentioned; 
a  semi-colon  separates  references  to  such  special  productions  from  references  to  the 
play  alone.  In  the  case  of  theaters  listed,  the  name  of  the  city  in  which  each  is 
located  appears  in  parenthesis. 


Ars  System,  73-76,  116. 

Andre,  Harald,  opp.  54,  75,  77,  78,  79, 

opp.  120,  121-122,  opp.  122. 
i^lschylus,  6,  92,  212. 
Albert  Theater  (Dresden),  33. 
Alice  Sit-by-tke-Firey  193. 
Allard,  Robert,  105,  181. 
American  Magazine,  The,  220. 
Amphitheater,  46. 
Andreyeff,  Leonid,  25. 
Anglin,  Margaret,  98. 
Annonce  faite  a  Marie,  V,  (Dalcroze- 

Appia)  159. 
Appia,  Adolphe,  42,  44,  68-69,  70,  107, 

138,  159,  195. 
Arnold,  Victor,  82. 
Art,  19,  220. 

Austrian  State  Opera  House,  see  Vienna 

Opera  House. 
Awakening  of  Spring,  The,  28. 

Back  to  Methuselah,  (Simonson)  73,  76. 
Bahr,  Hermann,  192. 
Bakshy,  Alexander,  99,  100,  158. 
Bakst,  Leon,  44,  48. 

225 


Balieff,  N.  F.,  107. 
Ballets  Russes,  44. 

Barber  of  Seville,  The,  186,  189-190, 

opp.  190. 
Barnsdall,  Aline,  159,  194. 
Barrie,  Sir  J.  M.,  8. 
Barrymore,  Lionel,  87. 
Barton,  Jim,  86. 
Bassermann,  Albert,  82. 
Bataille,  Henry,  6. 
Beaumarchais,  192. 
Beggar's  Of  era.  The,  192. 
Belasco,  David,  14,  25,  42,  176. 
Bell,  CJive,  19-20,  220. 
Ben-Ami,  Jacob,  94. 

Berlin  State  Opera  House,  opp.  60,  146. 

Berlin  State  Schauspielhaus,  55,  72,  78, 
84;  (Acting  company)  88-89,  139- 
140;  (Jessner's  productions  there) 
130-143;  see  illus.,  Nafoleon,  Othello, 
and  Richard  HI. 

Berlin  Volksbiihne,  see  Volksbiihne. 

Bernhardt,  Sarah,  98,  104. 

Bertens,  Rosa,  82. 

Bibiena,  see  Galli-Bibiena. 


INDEX 


Bing,  Suzanne,  180,  204-. 
Blake,  Wm.,  220. 

Blatter  des  Deutschen  TheaterSy  162. 

Blaue  Vogely  Defy  83. 

Booth,  Edwin,  98. 

Booth  Theater  (New  York),  193. 

Bouquet,  Romain,  181. 

Bragdon,  Claude,  218. 

Brahm,  Otto,  42,  110. 

Brice,  Fanny,  102. 

Bronnen,  Arnold,  29. 

Burbage,  92. 

Burghers  of  Calais y  137. 

Burgtheater  (Vienna),  55,  56,  84,  177. 

Butler,  Samuel,  118. 

Cizsar  and  Cleofatray  193. 
Calderon,  117,  188,  216. 
Caliban     (MacKaye  -  Ordynski  -  Urban  - 

Jones)  159,  161. 
Cantor,  Eddie,  204. 
Capek,  Karel,  34,  35,  36. 
Carroll,  Lewis,  58. 

Carrosse  du  St.'^Sacrementy  Ley  (Copeau- 
Jouvet)  104,  179,  opp.  180. 

Catlett,  Walter,  204. 

Cenciy  They  206. 

Cezanne,  6,  38. 

Chauve-Sourisy  83,  107. 

Chaplin,  Charlie,  86,  99. 

Cheney,  Sheldon,  175. 

Cherry  Orchard y  They  (Stanislavsky)  8- 
16,  opp.  10,  28,  90,  95,  192. 

Chout  (le  Boufon),  (Gontcharova)  124- 
125. 

Church  Theater,  170,  216-218. 
Circus  Schumann   (Berlin),   110,  162, 
164,  200. 

Circus  Theater,  110,  157,  162-170,  198- 
212,  213,  216. 


Cirque  d'Hiver  (Paris),  200. 

Cirque  Medrano  (Paris)  viii,  198-212, 

opp.  206,  opp.  208. 
Clark,  Bobbie,  102. 
Claudel,  Paul,  159. 
Clavigory  117,  188. 
Cloud-machine,  75-76,  77. 
Collegienkirche  (Salzburg),  216,  218. 
Color  Organ,  76.  ^ 
Comedie    des    Champs-Elysees  (Paris), 

193,  see  illus..  He  Who  Gets  Staffed 

and  Uncle  Vanya, 
Cooper,  Claude,  85,  105. 
Copean,  Jacques,  viii,  25,  42,  55,  85,  104, 

105,  106,  159,  171-183,  opp.  174, 

opp,  180,  188,  200,  203,  204,  207, 

209,  217. 
Corneille,  192. 

Craig,  Gordon,  18,  19,  25,  42,  44,  56, 

57,  107,  111,  131,  139,  160,  195. 
Craven,  Frank,  96,  97-98. 
Curio,  C,  198. 
Cyclorama,  71,  72,  74,  116. 
Czeck  National  Theater  (Prague),  34. 

Dalcroze,  Jaques-,  159. 
Dame  Cobalt y  117,  188. 
D'Annunzio,  Gabriele,  8. 
Dante,  159. 

Dantony    (Reinhardt-Stern)    110,  167, 

168;  209. 
Das  Bist  Duy  (Linnebach)  73. 
Deutsches  Opernhaus  (Charlottenburg), 

59. 

Deutsches  Theater  (Berlin),  110,  111. 
Diegelmann,  Wilhelm,  82. 
Dietrich,  M.,  82,  90,  149-150, 
Divine  Comedy y  They  159. 
Dome,  70-72,  153. 
Don  Giovanniy  59. 


226 


INDEX 


Dooley,  Johnny,  204. 
Dooley,  Ray,  2 04-. 
Draper,  Ruth,  102. 

Dream  Play^  The,  28;  (Reinhardt)  107. 
Drehbiihne,  see  Revolving  stage. 
Dresden  Opera  House,  60,  73. 
Dresden  Schauspielhaus,  25,  60-61,  72; 

(Acting  company)  87-88. 
Duchamp,  Marcel,  38. 
Duncan,  Augustin,  85. 
Durer,  A.,  48. 
Duse,  Eleanora,  80,  99. 

Eames,  Clare,  98. 
Ebert,  Carl,  88. 
Edwards,  Norman,  194. 
Eibenschiitz,  Camilla,  82. 
Emferor  J  ones ,  The^  209. 
Erdgeist,  28,  83. 
Errol,  Leon,  204. 
Euripides,  192. 

Evergreen  Tree,  The,  159,  161. 
Everyman,     (Lindberg)     112;  (Rein- 
hardt) 162;  218. 
Eysoldt,  Gertrud,  82. 

Faust,  (Reinhardt-Stern)  opp.  108. 
Fehling,  Jurgen,  119,  144,  148-156,  opp. 

148,  opp.  150,  opp.  152,  opp.  154, 

opp.  156,  196. 
Festsfiel,  (Reinhardt)  162. 
Fields,  Lew,  204. 
First  Year,  The,  96. 

Florian  Geyer,  5 ;  (Stieler-Goldschmidt) 
55,  86,  89,  102;  (Reinhardt)  168; 
209. 

Follies,  The,  204. 
Ford,  Henry,  220. 

Forestage,  116,  159,  162-163,  168, 
169,  173,  174,  175,  176,  181,  191. 


Formal  stage,  64,  65,  104,  159,  173, 
176. 

Forrest,  Edwin,  98. 

Forrest,  Marguerite,  85. 

Forster,  Rudolf,  89. 

Fortuny,  M.,  69,  70. 

Fortuny  System,  69-70. 

Four  Series  de  Sea  fin,  Les,  200,  207. 

France,  Anatole,  14,  37. 

Frances ca  da  Rimini,  (Duse)  80. 

Frank,  Waldo,  66,  221. 

Frankfort  Opera  House,  32,  opp.  32. 

Frankfort  Schauspielhaus,  51;  55,  (Act- 
ing company)  88-89;  112,  opp.  112, 
opp.  114. 

Freie  Volksbiihne,  110;  see  Volksbiihne. 
Freres  Karamazov,  Les,  (Copeau-Jouvet) 

25,  66,  103,  104,  173,  174,  opp.  174, 

176,  179. 
Frogs,  The,  92. 

From  Morn  to  Midnight,  (Simonson)  78. 
Furttenbach,  Joseph,  199. 

Galli-Bibiena,  120,  126. 

Galsworthy,  John,  6,  7,  24. 

Garrick,  David,  23,  92,  100. 

Garrick  Theater  (New  York),  173,  180. 

Gas,  (Linnebach)  73. 

Geddes,  Norman-Bel,  159,  194. 

Gemier,  Firmin,  159,  200. 

Getting  Married,  193. 

Globe  Theater  (London),  120. 

Goethe,  6,  45,  117,  121,  188. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  193. 

Gontcharova,  Natalia,  124. 

Gorky,  Maxim,  107,  191. 

Gozzi,  C,  117,  188. 

Grabbe,  C.  D.,  73,  88,  131,  133,  137. 

Grasso,  Giovanni,  98,  104. 

Greek  Theater  (Berkeley,  Cal.),  194. 


227 


INDEX 


Grieg,  Edward,  54. 

Grosses  Schauspielhaus  (Berlin),  vii,  53, 
55,  109,  110,  111,  115,  116,  164- 
170,  opp.  164,  opp.  168,  176,  177, 
182,  189,  200,  204,  209-210,  216. 

Grossi  and  Coquette,  203. 

Grumfyy  83. 

Grunewald,  Isaac,  121-123,  opp.  120, 
122. 

Guthrie,  Rev.  Wm.  N.,  218. 

Hairy  Afe,  They  5,  21,  29,  38. 

Hamlety  24;  (Reinhardt-Stern)  110,  111, 
168;  192,  208. 

Hartau,  Ludwig,  89. 

Hasait,  Max,  60,  61,  65,  72,  74,  116. 

Hasenclever,  Walter,  32,  33,  63. 

Hauptmann,  Gerhart,  5,  86,  162. 

He  Who  Gets  Slaffedy  (PitoefF)  opp.  24, 
25;  98;  (Simonson)  133. 

Hebbel,  168. 

Heims,  Elsa,  82. 

Heinrich,  Sebastien,  186,  187. 

Heinz,  Wolfgang,  89. 

Herford,  Beatrice,  102. 

Herterich,  84. 

Hettner,  Otto,  65. 

Hilar,  K.  H.,  34. 

Hindemith,  Paul,  32. 

Hofmannsthal,  Hugo  von,  116,  121. 

Hof theater  (Munich),  see  Munich  Na- 
tional Theater. 

Hopkins,  Arthur,  14,  44,  129. 

Howard,  Eugene,  204. 

Howard,  Willie,  204. 

Hume,  Sam,  194. 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  6,  27,  29,  41. 
Idle  Inn,  The,  94. 
Ingalls,  H.  C,  46. 


Inner  proscenium,  64,  73* 
Insect  Comedy y  The,  (Hilar-Capek)  34- 
36. 

International  Theater  Exhibition  (Am- 
sterdam and  London),  ix,  x. 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  121. 

Jannings,  Emil,  82. 

Jansson,  Thoroff,  121. 

Jaques-Dalcroze,  see  Dalcroze. 

JenseitSy  (Linnebach)  33,  63,  73. 

Jessner,  Leopold,  vii,  78,  80,  88,  89, 
119,  opp.  126,  opp.  128,  opp.  130, 
opp.  132,  opp.  134,  130-143,  opp.  136, 
opp.  138,  opp.  140,  opp.  142,  opp. 
144,  opp.  146,  147,  154-155,  175,  196. 

Jesty  They  208. 

Jolson,  Al,  101. 

Jones,  Inigo,  120. 

Josefhiney  192. 

Jouvet,  Louis,  103,  104,  174,  opp.  174, 
176,  177,  180,  opp.  180,  181,  182, 
204. 

Joyce,  James,  66. 
Judithy  168-169,  opp.  168. 
Julius   C(Bsary    (Reinhardt-Stern)  168; 
193. 

Kainy  (Roller)  56. 
Kaiser,  Georg,  7,  32,  78. 
Kaiser  Heinrich  VI y  (Linnebach)  73. 
Kamerny  Theater  (Moscow),  104. 
Kammerspielhaus  (Berlin),  46. 
Katchaloff,  V.  I.,  11. 
Kaufman,  Oskar,  45,  46,  146. 
Kellerhals,  Richard,  86,  87,  102. 
Kemble,  Chas.,  23. 
Klein,  Cesar,  opp.  126. 
Knipper,  Mme.  O.  L.,  11,  12-13. 
Kokoschka,  Oskar,  32-33. 


228 


INDEX 


Konstantin,  Leopoldine,  82. 
Kortner,  Fritz,  89,  139-141. 
Krauss,  Werner,  189. 
Kraussneck,  Arthur,  89. 
Krehan,  Hermann,  196. 
Kummer,  Clare,  192. 
Kunstler  Theater  (Munich),  46,  85,  193, 
203. 

Kuffelhorizonty  see  Dome. 

Lauder,  Harry,  103. 

Lautenschlager,  Karl,  58. 

Ledebur,  Leopold  von,  89. 

Leffler,  Heinrich,  5  5. 

Lehman,  Elsa,  82. 

Leithner,  Melitta,  88. 

Le  Maire,  Geo.,  204. 

Lert,  Ernst,  33. 

Le  Goff,  Jean,  180. 

Lessing  Theater  (Berlin),  55. 

Lindberg,  Per,  111. 

Lindsay,  Vachel,  221. 

Linnebach,  Adolf,  33,  60,  63,  64,  opp. 

64,  65,  71,  72,  73,  74,  opp.  76,  78, 

116. 
Lionel,  203. 

Little  Theater  (New  York),  193. 
Littmann,  Max,  45,  46,  85,  203. 
Living  Corpe^  The^  84. 
Lorensberg  Theater  (Gothenburg),  111. 
Lulu.,  28,  83;  see  also  Erdgeist  and  Pan- 
dora's Box. 
Lydia  et  Henry,  206. 
Lysistratay  192. 

Macbethy    the   opera,  (Andre-Jannson) 

opp.  54,  55,  78,  79,  121. 
Mack,  Wm.  B.,  87. 

MacKaye,  Percy,  159,  160,  161,  162, 
163. 


MacKaye,  Steele,  160-161. 
Madison  Square  Garden   (New  York), 
159. 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  8,  121. 
Magday  193. 
Mallarme,  Stephane,  29. 
Manet,  E.,  201. 

Maria  Stuart y  (Weichert-Sievert)  54,  55, 
88,  112,  opp.  112,  opp.  114. 

Marriage  of  Convenience,  Ay  192. 

Marriage  of  Figaro,  The,  frontisfiece, 
184,  186,  opp.  186,  188,  189,  190. 

Marionettes,  73. 

Masque  of  St.  Louis,  They  (MacKaye- 

Smith)  159,  161. 
Masse-Menschy   (Fehling-Strohbach)  vii, 

34,  53,  55,  62,  72,  80,  90,  144-156, 

opp.  148,  opp.  150,  opp.  152,  opp. 

154,  opp.  156,  196,  208-209,  211. 
Master  Builder y  They  28. 
Matisse,  Henri,  38. 
Maugham,  Somerset,  192. 
Medrano,  see  Cirque  Medrano. 
Merchant  of  Venice y  They  (Reinhardt) 

111;  207-208,  opp.  208. 
Meister singer y  Diey  (Roller)  55,  56,  opp. 

56. 

Merimee,  Prosper,  179. 

Midsummer  Night'' s  Dream,  Ay  (Rein- 
hardt) 110,  192. 

Miller's  Theater,  Henry  (New  York), 
193. 

Milne,  A.  A.,  192. 

MiracUy  The,  (Reinhardt-Stern)  110. 
Misanthrofe,  Le,  117,  171,  188. 
Mitchell,  Grant,  17. 
Moissi,  Alexander,  82,  111,  139,  189, 
200. 

Molicre,  23,  100,  117,  120,  188,  192. 
Molluso,  They  192. 


229 


INDEX 


M order  Hofnung  der  Trauen^  (Lert- 

Sievert)  32-33,  opp.  32. 
Morgan,  J.  P.,  220. 

Moscow  Art  Theater,  vii,  8,  opp.  10, 
11-16,  25,  28,  83,  90,  97,  102,  158, 
192. 

Motion  Pictures,  216. 
Mozart,  73. 
Miiller,  Gerda,  88,  89. 
Munich  National  Theater,  opp.  64,  65, 

76,  opp.  76,  85;  (Acting  company) 

86-87. 

Murderer y  Hofe  of  Women^  see  Morder^ 

Hofnung  der  Frauen. 
Musik  und  die  Inscenierung,  Die,  68. 
Muthel,  Lothar,  89. 


Na'poleoUy  (Jessner-Klein)  88,  opp.  126, 
131,  132,  133-134,  135-136,  136- 
137,  139. 

National  Theater  (Munich),  see  Munich 

National  Theater. 
Night  Lodging,  110,  191. 
Neue  Schaubuhne  Die,  33. 
Neues  Volkstheater  (Berlin),  145. 
New  York  Theater  Guild,  see  Theater 

Guild. 


Oheron,  (Hasait)  73. 

(Edifus-Rexy     (Reinhardt-Stern)  110, 

115,  162,  165,  168. 
CEttly,  Paul,  180. 
O'Neill,  Eugene,  5,  21,  29,  37. 
Orestes,  (Reinhardt)  162. 
Orska,  Marie,  83. 

Or-pheus  i?i  the  Underworld y  (Reinhardt- 

Ree)  107-110. 
Othello,  (Jessner-Pirchan)  72,  opp.  128, 

230 


opp.  130,  131,  132,  opp.  132,  opp. 
134,  136,  138,  139,  140,  141. 

Pallenberg,  Max,  82,  83,  189,  200. 

Pandora's  Box,  28,  83. 

Parrish,  Maxfield,  55. 

Pasetti,  Leo,  opp.  64,  65,  opp.  76. 

Path  of  the  Russian  Stage,  The,  99. 

Pavloff,  P.  A.,  11,  13. 

Peer  Gynt,  54,  55,  88,  113. 

Penthesilea  (Reinhardt-Stern),  55. 

Permanent  setting,  64,  104,  159,  184- 

197,  207. 
Phillips,  71. 

Picasso,  Pablo,  6,  38,  214. 

Pinero,  Sir  A.  W.,  6. 

Pirchan,  Emil,  opp.  60,  119,  131,  opp. 
126,  opp.  128,  opp.  130,  opp.  132, 
opp.  134,  opp.  136,  opp.  138, 
opp.  140,  opp.  142,  opp.  144,  opp. 
146. 

Pitoeff,  Georges,  opp.  24,  25,  53,  125, 

opp.  124,  127. 
Plymouth  Theater  (New  York),  193. 
Podium,  63,  126,  196,  213. 
Poelzig,    Hans,    109,    116,  166-167, 

168. 

Ponto,  Erich,  90. 

Portal,  see  Inner  proscenium. 

Price,  Georgie,  97. 

Prices  of  admission,  50. 

Prinzregenten   Theater    (Munich),  46, 

85,  203. 
Projected  scenery,  72-78. 
Prunella,  192. 

Prussian  State  Opera  House,  see  Berlin 

State  Opera  House. 
Prussian  State  Schauspielhaus,  see  Berlin 

State  Schauspielhaus. 
Pygmalion,  (Linnebach)  25,  64,  88. 


INDEX 


Rachel,  EHsa,  100. 
Racine,  192. 

Rede'mftio7t,  (Hopkins- Jones)  84. 

Redoutensaal  (Vienna),  frontispiece,  vii, 
viii,  25,  56,  66,  117,  126,  176,  177, 
184-197,  opp.  186,  opp.  190,  204, 
205,  207,  210,  211,  216. 

Ree,  Max,  108. 

Reinhardt,  Max,  25,  30,  32,  42,  44,  46, 
50,  55,  56,  58,  59,  82,  107-1  1  1,  opp. 
108,  112,  113,  115-117,  118,  119, 
121,  125,  129,  130,  149,  159,  160, 
162-170,  186,  188,  189,  190,  199, 
200,  209,  216. 

Religion  and  the  theater,  170,  215-222. 

Repertory  system,  49-50. 

Residenz  Theater  (Munich),  85. 

Revolving  stage,  58-59,  61-62,  213. 

Rkeingoldy  DaSy  (Hasait)  62,  65; 
(Linnebach-Pasetti)  opp.  64,  65,  76, 
opp.  76. 

Richard  III  (Jessner-Pirchan),  53,  80, 
131,  134,  136,  opp.  136,  137-142, 
opp.  138,  opp.  142,  opp.  144,  opp. 
146. 

Richardson,  Dorothy,  66. 

Ring  m.  Rangy  46. 

Rodin,  August,  137,  140,  182* 

Roerich,  Nicolas,  57. 

Rolland,  Romain,  110,  167. 

Roller,  Alfred,  44,  47,  55,  56,  opp.  56, 

57,  189-190. 
Romeo   and   Juliet,    (Reinhardt)  111; 

(Lindberg)  112,  192,  194. 
Roscius,  100. 
Rosmersholniy  193. 
Rosse,  Herman,  159. 
Royal  Swedish  Opera,  see  Swedish  Opera. 
R.  U,  R.  (Hilar-Capek),  36-37. 
Rundhorizonty  71. 

23 


Sabine  Women,  The,  192. 
St.  Martin's  Theater  (London),  193. 
Salle  des  Machines,  La  (Paris),  66. 
Salzburg  Festspielhaus,  107,  116. 
Samson  and  Delilah,  (Andre-Griinewald) 

77,  121-123,  opp.  120,  opp.  122. 
Samson  and  Delilah  (the  play),  94. 
Sandburg,  Carl,  221. 
Saturday  Evening  Post,  The,  220. 
Savry,  Albert,  181. 

Saxon  State  Schauspielhaus,  see  Dresden 

Schauspielhaus. 
Schaeffer,  Rudolph,  194. 
Schatzgraber,  Der,  opp.  60. 
Schauspielhaus  (Berlin),  see  Berlin  State 

Schauspielhaus. 
Schauspielhaus   (Dresden),   see  Dresden 

Schauspielhaus. 
Schauspielhaus  (Frankfort),  see  Frankfort 

Schauspielhaus. 
Schiebebiihne,  see  Sliding  stage. 
Schildkraut,  Rudolf,  82. 
Schinkel,  C.  F.,  45,  120. 
School  for  Scandal,  The,  192. 
Schwabe,  71,  74. 
Seagull,  The  (Pitoeff),  25,  28. 
Selwyn  Theater  (New  York),  193. 
Semper,  G.,  45. 
Senders,  84. 
Shadow-marionettes,  73. 
Shakespeare,  Wm.,  6,  22,  23,  24,  53,  87, 

93,  100,  110,  120,  121,  134,  137, 

140,  141,  161,  181,  192,  193,  199, 

209,  212. 
Shaw,  G.  B.,  8,  25,  73,  193. 
Shelley,  6,  207. 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  23,  100. 
Sievert,  Ludwig,  opp.  32,  33,  51,  112- 

119,  opp.  112,  opp.  114,  123-124. 
Simonson,  Lee,  73,  76,  77,  133,  194. 

1 


INDEX 


Sinking  stage,  60,  61,  62,  63-64-,  65,  66. 
Six  Cylinder  Love,  96. 
Sky-dome,  see  Dome. 
Sliding  stage,  58,  59-61,  65. 
Sophocles,  110,  159,  162. 
Spectatorium  (Chicago),  161. 
Sfook  Sonata,  The,  28;  (Munich)  30- 
31. 

S,  S.  Tenacity y  The,  (Copeau)  25,  84, 

104-,  105,  178,  179. 
Staatsoper    (Berlin),    see    Berlin  State 

Opera  House. 
Staatsoper  (Vienna),  see  Vienna  Opera 

House. 

Stanislavsky,  C.  S.,  8,  opp.  10,  11,  13, 
14,  94,  95,  121,  158. 

State  Opera  House  (Dresden),  see  Dres- 
den Opera. 

State  Opera  House  (Berlin),  see  Berlin 
State  Opera  House. 

State  Schauspielhaus  (Berlin),  see  Berlin 
State  Schauspielhaus. 

State  Schauspielhaus  (Dresden),  see  Dres- 
den Schauspielhaus. 

Stella,  117,  188. 

Stern,  Ernst,  44,  47,  48,  55,  57,  58, 
opp.  108,  109,  118,  119,  125,  167, 
189. 

Strauss,  Richard,  116,  146. 
Strife,  209. 

Strindbcrg,  August,  27-28,  29,  31,  32, 

42,  51,  107. 
Strnad,  Oskar,  199. 

Strohbach,  Hans,  opp.  44,  119,  148,  opp. 

148,  149,  opp.  150,  opp.  152,  opp. 

154,  opp.  156. 
Strom,  Kunt,  111,  125, 
Sturm,  Der,  29. 
Sudraka,  88. 


Sumurun,  (Reinhardt-Stern)  44,  82,  108, 
159. 

Sunken  Bell,  The,  55. 
Swanwhite,  28. 

Swedish  Opera  (Stockholm),  viii,  opp. 
54,  55,  74,  75,  108,  opp.  120,  opp. 
122. 

Szukalsky,  Stanislas,  183, 

Talma,  F.  J.,  100. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,  The,  86,  102. 
Tchehoff,  Anton,  8,  11,  25,  28,  29. 
Theater  du  Vieux-Colombier  (Paris),  viii, 

55;  (Acting  company),  103-105,  106, 

159,  171-183;  opp.  174;  opp.  180; 

(Acting    company),    178-183;  188, 

200,  207,  209,  210. 
Theater  Guild  (New  York),  73,  78,  133. 
Theater  in  dem  Redoutensaal  (Vienna), 

see  Redoutensaal. 
Theater  of  Dionysus  (Athens),  211. 
Theater  of  the  Five  Thousand,  The,  115, 

162,  170,  199. 
Theater  of  the  World,  The,  216,  218. 
Thomas,  Augustus,  7. 
Three  Sisters,  The,  94. 
Toller,  Ernst,  144,  146,  147,  154,  see 

Masse-Mensch. 
Towards  Damascus,  28;  (Kerb-Sicvcrt), 

51,  56,  123-124. 
Toy  Theater  (Boston),  171, 
Treszlcr,  84. 

Traum,  ein  Leben,  Der,  opp.  44. 

Trojan  Women,  The  (Browne),  171. 

Troubador,  Der,  56. 

Truex,  Ernest,  96. 

Truth,  The,  192. 

Truth  About  Blayds,  The,  194. 

Turandot,  117,  188. 


232 


INDEX 


Twelfth  Night,  (Copeau-Jouvet),  103, 
104,  180-181,  192,  194. 

XJbermarionettey  19. 
Ulmer,  Friedrich,  87. 
IJncU  Vanya,  opp.  124. 

Van  Gogh,  Vincent,  38. 
Vasantasena,  (Hettner)  64,  88,  89,  90. 
Vatermord,  29-30. 
Verden,  Alice,  88. 
Verdi,  G.,  55,  78. 
Versunkene  Glocke,  Die,  168. 
Vetter,  President,  117,  186,  187. 
Vienna  Opera  House,  opp.  56,  185,  186, 
188. 

Vieux-Colombier,  see  Theater  du  Vieux- 

Colombier. 
Vildrac,  Charles,  84. 
Volksbuhne  (Berlin),  viii,  opp.  44,  46, 

47,  55,  62,  72,  90,  144-146,  148, 

152,  153,  155,  see  illus.  of  Masse- 

Mensch. 
Volksoper  (Berlin),  145. 


Wagner,  R.,  45,  68,  69. 

Wagon  stage,  61. 

Washington  Square  Players,  56. 

Wauwau,  Der,  83. 

Weavers,  The,  192,  209. 

Weber,  73. 

Weber,  Joe,  204. 

Wedekind,  Frank,  28-29,  32,  83,  84, 
107. 

Wegener,  Paul,  82. 

Weichert,  Richard,  88,   112-115,  opp. 

112,  opp.  114,  119. 
When  We  Dead  Awaken,  28, 
Wilbrand,  84. 
Wild  Duck,  The,  28. 
Wilde,  Oscar,  192,  209. 

Wilfred  Thomas,  76.  

Wilhelm  Tell,  (Linnebach)  73. 

Will  of  Song,  The,  (MacKaye-Barhart- 

Jones)  159,  161. 
Wright,  Frank  Lloyd,  159. 
W.  UuM.,  see  R.U.R. 

Zauberfiote,  (Hasait)  73* 


233 


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GETTY  CENTER  LIBRARY 


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